


The Midnight Fox

by Minka



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - No Powers, And I started the Gosling namedropping first!, Art Heists, Being a party prince with a ring of smugglers trying to usurp your country is very serious, Bodyguard Steve Rogers, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Enemies to Lovers, Humor, Identity Porn, M/M, Masked Heroes, Modern Royalty, More mentions of Ryan Gosling than that atrocious Netflix movie, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Publicity Stunts, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Smuggling, Top Steve Rogers, Vigilante Justice, bratty bucky, but mostly serious, lots and lots of that, past Brock/Bucky, prince bucky, underlying crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28104345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minka/pseuds/Minka
Summary: Amid the flashing lights, high fashion, and crystalline champagne flutes of the royal court of Estia, a deadly intrigue is brewing.  There are whispers in the night; talk of a plot to assassinate the king and an uprising forged in blood and funded by stolen art.With the bars of his gilded cage closing in, Crown Prince James Barnes faces his own struggles.  Dealing with a city more enamoured with a masked vigilante than him is starting to get old fast, and his stuffy new bodyguard is as infuriating as he is potentially dangerous.As chaos threatens to rip the country apart and the list of royal allies begins to run thin, the prince is forced to face the demons lurking in his past.  After all, no party can last indefinitely, and no secrets remain buried forever.----Aka, the modern royalty and bodyguard AU that, like all my other fics, no one asked for but you’re bloody well going to get anyway.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Brock Rumlow, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 71
Kudos: 51
Collections: Bucky Barnes Bingo 2020





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Well. Here we are, and what a way to close off 2020. 
> 
> This fic is… well. A fic. Lol. I honestly haven’t argued with words and struggled so much with a fic as I have this one, and yes, that includes End of All Days! Compared to this, [End of All Days](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23118046) was a fucking walk in the park to write. 
> 
> Which is alarming, tbh. Lol. I think it’s because this is the first long fic that I’ve done that isn’t 100% my usual style. Don’t get me wrong (especially you long time readers – god I love you guys!) there are still a lot of layers in this story (like A LOT) and there are twists and turns galore. There’s action and typical Minka fight scenes, there’s snarky moments and the expected tension and yes, there’s even the Minka TM version of PTSD in this. But there’s also three points of view (three!!!! One of which, as you’re about to see, is ambiguous af) and Bucky, in particular, is VERY different to my usual long-fic Bucky. He’s a lot more inline with [My Fuckbuddy Is…](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27075838) or even [Heart of my Own](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27911761) Bucky. And, oddly, I found that really, really challenging to keep as a long-running theme. 
> 
> Anyway. None of you really care about this and hopefully you won’t notice all the places that I fought with the fic, and you’re obviously not going to see all the times I just shut it down and ignored it for MONTHS. Lol. 
> 
> My thanks to my beta Nika comes spring-loaded with glitter bomb traps this time, mostly because it's her fault that this ended up with that 3rd POV and another whole storyline to contend with, thus turning what was meant to be an easy 20-30k crack fic into… I just don’t even know any more. So you should probably all thank her while I silently seethe in her general direction. 
> 
> Crossing off some more Bucky Barnes Bingo Squares!
> 
>  **Title:** The Midnight Fox - Prologue  
>  **Square Filled:** K2 – “I Had a Plan”  
>  **Author:** Minka  
>  **Pairing:** Steve/Bucky  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Warnings:** None  
>  **Summary:** Amid the flashing lights, high fashion, and crystalline champagne flutes of the royal court of Estia, a deadly intrigue is brewing. There are whispers in the night; talk of a plot to assassinate the king and an uprising forged in blood and stolen art. 
> 
> With the bars of his gilded cage closing in, Crown Prince James Barnes faces his own struggles. Dealing with a city more enamoured with a masked vigilante than him is starting to get old fast, and his stuffy new bodyguard is as infuriating as he is potentially dangerous. 
> 
> As chaos threatens to rip the country apart and the list of Royal allies begins to run thin, the Prince is forced to face the demons lurking in his past. After all, no party can last indefinitely, and no secrets remain buried forever.

****

**Prologue**

_Just a hero on a bridge that’s burning down_

_Thursday 23rd_

_10:37pm_

The figure clung to the side of the wall, limbs straining and muscles burning as they waited. 

The moon was high and full, illuminating the docking yards that stretched out below while kissing the Mediterranean Sea in the distance. From their vantage point, the figure could see the light playing off the tops of the waves, creating a stairway to the sky above, and the balmy warmth of the night came paired with the scent of crusty bread and salty sea-breeze. 

Under any other circumstances, it would have been a stunning evening in the sovereign city-state of Estia.

The figure, with their fox mask firmly in place, turned their head towards the south where the lights of the town-proper ripped open the sky. Even from here, the Fox could hear the pulse of life echoing off the high rises of Portside. Shapes moved across the streets, small like ants from the Fox’s vantage point, but dotted with bright colour and splashed with streetlights. 

Estia was a city — and declared country — that never slept. With its decadent nightlife and pristine white beaches, it had long been known as the go-to party destination in Western Europe. Of course, that was only the case for those who could _afford_ it. While clubbers and backpackers flocked to Ibiza to lose themselves in the thrum of heavy bass, Estia drew in the wealthy and famous, the influential and the upper elite. Those seeking more thrill than a crowded club and looking to avoid the average drugged-out Australian sitting in the gutter at three in the morning. 

Unfortunately, even a gleaming jewel like Estia had its underbelly, and, much to the Fox’s dismay, they were out in force tonight.

While other destination countries battled drunk Aussies and obnoxious Americans —as well as the local con artists intent on ripping travellers off — Estia fought a war against smuggling, with the currency of the month being drugs. Unlike most places, it wasn’t that the drugs were manufactured in Estia, or even that there was a high percentage of users. Estians were, for the most part, repulsed by the idea of narcotics being on their streets. The issue came due to the lax border control and free travel that the sovereign nation shared with its neighbours. It created a clear passageway for smugglers and, of late, that path had morphed into a full-blown highway of illegal substances. 

What had once been a silent war had recently hit the tabloids and gossip blogs, throwing dirty light onto the situation and drawing in all the wrong sorts of people. 

The Fox didn’t like that. They didn’t enjoy watching their home be desecrated and shunned by the French Prime minister. They didn’t like the way the Italians accused Estia of being complacent in the fight against organised crime, nor did they care for the travellers who assumed they could come to the Fox’s country and bring their vices with them. All it took was one seedy blog and misleading article to have the masses flocking. 

Crime begot crime, and while the Fox knew that illegal substances were a problem within themselves, it was what would come next that worried the Fox. 

It was that very fear that had brought the Fox out tonight; that had seen them slinking through the shadows and moving closer to the group of dubious figures gathered in the darkened shipping yards. 

The Fox watched the figures below with keen eyes. 

The purple mask was enough to have the Fox’s eyes narrowing behind the slits of their own disguise. 

This wasn’t the first time the Fox had come across the smuggler known as Baron Zemo, and the Fox was less than happy to see the man back on the shores of Estia. 

Everywhere the international criminal went, chaos seemed to follow. The last — and first as far as the Fox knew — time Zemo had been in Estia, had resulted in a terrible tragedy. One full of flashing blue and red lights and cries of anguish that echoed deep in the souls and memories of all Estians. 

Seeing that purple mask in the pale light had the Fox’s heart racing.

Curiosity was an insistent thing, however, and it saw the Fox edging along the warehouse wall, feet turned outwards as they crept. Gloved hands sought out secure grips and tested the stability of their path before transferring their full weight. To make noise here and now would give the game up. 

Once at the end, a shoulder check and a sharp inhale was all the preparation needed before the Fox sprang backwards, their body arching in a graceful line that had them landing on the corrugated roof of a shipping crate. One, two, three, four rushed steps had them across the exposed space within a pair of heartbeats. Dark and swift as a shadow, the Fox scampered from the side of the container, springing nimbly towards the rafters and swinging down to a lower loft of the warehouse. They landed cat-like on the ground, soft shoes silent and leather-clad hands supporting their weight. A quick crab-crawl had them back within the deep shadows without even standing, and from there, it was almost too easy to shimmy down the service ladder and onto the ground floor. 

The Fox was no stranger to danger, but even they felt their heart race as they peeked from the shadows and glanced over the group of criminals. One or two of them was almost too easy — hardly a challenge at all — but the group of them could pose a severe threat if the Fox wasn’t careful.

It was a case of the usual suspects, and then some unfamiliar to the Fox. 

There was Zemo, of course, and a man in a Dogon mask that the Fox had linked to an alias known as Killmonger. Batroc the Leaper, otherwise considered the scourge of the Fox’s existence, was also there. The man in red and black with what looked like ant feelers was someone new, as was the imposing figure in black and silver. The Fox wasn’t sure, but they’d guess that the newcomer was male, and while they wore a hood, slithers of a metal almost skull-like mask caught the light. It reminded the Fox of Crossbones which, if they were honest, wasn’t just alarming, but gut-wrenchingly unsettling. 

Just as disturbing was that said mercenary wasn’t part of the assembled crew; it wasn’t like Crossbones to sit anything out. 

The Fox didn’t have time to contemplate that further as the purple masked criminal moved back into the centre of the group of gang leaders and smugglers. 

“The Fox would have us all sitting at attention, and following the rules,” Zemo commented scathingly, his tone thick with disgust and an accent the Fox couldn’t quite place. Still, they couldn’t help but smirk as they lingered in the shadows. Clearly, the Fox was getting under their skin and hindering their progress. “Like house-trained dogs obeying a doddering old man and his backward policies.” The words were met with a murmur of approval from those gathered. The Fox wasn’t close enough to hear the individual voices, but it was clear they all agreed. 

“It’s high time someone placed the old fool in checkmate,” Zemo continued. That, however, had the Fox’s eyes narrowing. They knew the sound of a threat when they heard one, and they didn’t take too lightly to those made against Estia’s king. “We need to _remove_ _him_ from the board once and for all.”

The Fox did not like the sound of that one little bit. 

Drugs were one thing, and more questionable items were another, but assassination was something else entirely. Estia needed her leader, and the Fox didn’t even want to try and think what would happen if the king was forcefully taken out of the equation. It would be anarchy and wedge hostility between the neighbouring countries. A complete bloodbath – both politically and possibly physically – that would ease the way for the likes of Zemo to take control. 

The Fox couldn’t, and wouldn’t, let that happen!

“What do we have here?”

The Fox startled, body jumping at the sound of the muffled voice behind them. They’d been sprung; too preoccupied with eavesdropping on the diabolical plans of Estia’s scum that they’d allowed their cover to be blown.

Slowly, the Fox turned, the pointy snout of their mask proceeding the movement as the subtle flecks of gold sprinkled across the sharp ears caught the light. Calm was the key to success, and now more than ever, they needed to remember that. Had to play the moment and take control of the situation. After all, the person they were faced with was no stranger. Not in the games of the night and not in the power struggle of the streets, at least. 

Crossbones was about as bad as they came. A toxic seed that needed to be pulled out, root and all, and tossed into the sun to wither and die. The Fox hated him. The blank metal mask was enough of a turn-off on its own, but the criminal’s scratched up armour spoke of past dangerous encounters, frantic and deadly, in the narrow streets. 

The Fox’s claws itched at the memory, their teeth grinding as they tightened their jaw. 

This was no time for reminiscing, though, not when Crossbones barked out a warning to the gathered criminals. 

Just like that, all hell broke loose. 

The Fox bolted. Swift and sure-footed, they ducked under the range of Crossbones’ wild left hook and scampered further into the dark. Shouts and curses filled the air behind them, and the Fox distinctly heard Zemo yelling orders to give chase. More feet, more shouts; the sound of car doors. Clearly, the henchmen of the group of villains had been waiting somewhere in the vicinity. The Fox cursed the recon slip and forced their feet to move faster. They didn’t want to stick around and see just how many crooks were involved in the meeting. 

Speed and agility had always been the Fox’s strong points, and they relied on those skills heavily now. They skirted around shipping containers, danced between support beams and then bolted out onto the moonlit docking yard. Breathing in the mask was always a problem, but the Fox didn’t dare to remove it. Estia was a small country, and word of mouth and hearsay travelled too fast to risk an identity slip. 

With sweat forming on their brow, the Fox broke free of the industrialised docks district and pelted their way towards the narrower streets of Oldtown. They could still hear the thudding of their pursuers, though they were assured by the steadily growing distance between them. Not many could match the Fox for speed, and they had the added bonus of dressing light. Crossbones and the unknown hooded man and most of the other villains that the Fox had come across, all placed far too much value in body armour. It slowed them down. Made them heavy and cumbersome. It was why the Fox trusted little more than cotton and leather and suede. One didn’t need to protect themselves from being struck if they were swift and fast as a hunter. 

Up, up, up and into the twisting alleyways of the Oldtown the Fox went. They knew these streets; understood them like the backs of their covered hands. A left here; a right there; a dash past a T-section and a volt over a flower-covered fence; they were like a robber in the dark. Quick and sure-footed and appearing to leave even their own shadow in their wake. 

Skidding around a corner, the Fox almost ran headfirst into a kick to the face. Fast reflexes and a nimble body were the only things that saved them; their arms shooting up to protect their head without a split second to spare. 

The impact of the block had the Fox flying backwards, forearms aching and heart pounding as they struggled to make sense of the situation. The Fox offset the force of the fall and curled their body through a neat roll, coming to land crouched and with one hand on the ground in front of them. 

Their masked face shot up, eyes narrowing as the Leaper stepped out of the darkness. 

The villain didn’t allow them to stand. The Fox couldn’t blame Batroc, not really. They’d had this dance before and while the Fox had limped away with their tail between their legs, the Leaper had left the squabble bleeding. It had been a deadly run-in that had seen the people of Estia talking for weeks. 

Trying to get to their feet, the Fox wasn’t even upright by the time Batroc was moving forward again. That didn’t mean that the Fox was unprepared though, and they met the attack with determined recompense. A block, a parry and then the Fox was on the ground again, this time on their own accord. They rolled under what would have been a neck-breaking spinning kick before getting back to their feet. 

Back and forth they went, kicks blocked by shins and fists ricocheting off conditioned forearms. The Leaper was fast and lethal, with wild limbs and a combat style that the Fox wasn’t overly accustomed to. Knees went at places the Fox would have thought impossible, and Batroc lived up to the codename he’d adopted, jumping and moving more through the air than across the cobbled street. The Leaper’s legs were deadly; high kicks and knees that bruised and broke. The Fox scooted back, eyes narrowed as they counted the beats of the villain’s dance. 

Finally, they blocked a kick and went in for a strike to the throat. The Leaper was no fool, though, and with remarkably sharpened reflexes, the Fox found their arm caught in a vice-like grip. Batroc yanked, twisting the limb to the side to expose the Fox, opening them up for an attack. 

The fist that collided with the Fox’s chest carried the weight of a hammer. 

Winded and gasping in shock, it was all the Fox could do to twist under their own trapped arm to avoid another crushing blow. Pain flared through their shoulder joint, but they pressed on. Instead of taking a step out and away, and overstretching their arm, the Fox balanced on their right leg and sent a snapped foot into the side of the Leaper’s knee. Batroc growled at the pain, and the Fox took the opportunity to turn and chop their free left hand down on the villain’s wrist. 

Evenly matched in pain and momentary discombobulation, they staggered away from each other, breathing hard and all but licking their wounds. 

The Fox didn’t have time for this; they knew that, just as Batroc did. Each moment was one wasted, a second closer to discovery and a flock of thugs that would swarm like fleas. 

“I thought you were…” the Leaper waved their hand in the air dismissively. It complimented the snark held in the clipped French accent. “… _More_.”

Behind the black, vulpine mask, the Fox raised an eyebrow and tightened their jaw. 

“Let’s see,” the Fox hissed back, their French as fluent as Batroc’s. 

The Fox launched, their body finding air as they pressed the advantage. Both knees connected with the Leaper’s chest as they used their weight and momentum to drive the man to the ground. Not one to waste a precious opportunity, the Fox went in for the proverbial kill. A punch to the face from the right fist, then one from the left, and then the Fox’s claws were flashing in the moonlight, blades of indestructible silver ready to cut through skin and bite into bone. 

The Leaper was too strong though; too resistant to punches and not yet drunk on the pain and brain-rattling force of the blows. 

As large hands closed around the Fox’s hips, the vigilante let out a mewl of irritated shock before a mighty push had them dislodged from their pinning perch. Once again the Fox caught flight, sailing wild, flailing-limbed through the air before arching down with a crash. The ground shuddered and rocked under them, then tipped and seemed to shatter with the sound of creaking wood. It took longer than it should for the Fox to realise that they’d been thrown into an alfresco table that had broken at the impact. 

Rolling from the table, the Fox landed in a heap of arms and legs and broken furniture. 

Batroc was already halfway up, and if the Fox had taken another moment to blink the dizzying pain from their eyes, they would have missed the flipping attack. The Fox spread their legs and scooted back just in time to miss a crushing blow from the Leaper’s foot; the heavy boot collided with the ground where the Fox’s crotch had only just been. 

“Fils de pute,” the Fox swore. They were losing steam, their battered body crying out in pain and exhaustion, and that sluggishness showed as the Fox pushed themselves back up onto their feet. They needed a way to end this and quickly. 

Salvation came with a creak of wood and a heavy thump as the tabletop finally broke free of the weakened single leg. 

The Fox grabbed for it; the Leaper spun a kick meant to intercept. A hair's breadth was all that stood between the winner and the loser, and the Fox heaved the tabletop up and brandished it like a shield, blocking the fatally dangerous kick. Jamming the table forward, Batroc was driven back enough to let the Fox stand, and then it was just a matter of sheer force. 

The Fox swung the tabletop with all the force they could muster. It arched through the air, its cracked, rough edges slicing like a blade. 

The Leaper took the brunt of it to the head, the force of the collision splintering the table and making the Fox’s arms ache all the way up to their shoulders. The Fox could even feel it in their lower back; a throbbing pain of explosive force that jarred them to the bone. 

It did the trick, though, and Batroc the Leaper crumbled to the floor, surrounded by flacks of paint and stake-like splinters. 

Winded and wheezing, the Fox dropped the fragments of the table that had remained in their hands to the cobblestone floor, then took the opportunity for what it was. They wanted to stay, wanted to unmask the criminal and bring the vile man to justice, but the sound of pursuit was echoing off the street just behind them. There was no time to press the victory. 

And so they ran once again. It was slowed by the pain in their clobbered body, but self-preservation made them push on. The pressing need was only highlighted at the sound of a voice calling after them. 

“Where are you, little fox?” Crossbones’ voice was a thing of nightmares. It carried tones that provoked memory and feeling, even if the sound was distorted. 

Knowing that they were in no condition for another run-in —Batroc had put up more of a fight than the Fox had anticipated — the Fox didn’t pause. Not even for a second. 

Breath fogged under the mask as the figure ran. The usually silent fall of their footsteps beat a frantic pace against the cobblestones of the upper city. While normally nothing more than a dark smudge against the coloured houses and bright boulevards, the Fox was now a scampering animal, all speed and necessity and little grace or stealth. 

Eventually, the sounds of street life started to outweigh the frantic beating of the Fox’s own heart and the heaves of their breath. The Fox knew the streets of Estia well and even panicked and bruised, the Fox’s feet had led them towards the safety of a crowd. 

Slipping the mask from their face, The Fox casually tossed it into a nearby trash can and ruffled the flatness out of their hair. A borderline vicious tug to the zip of their leather jacket had it falling open, exposing a vibrant shirt the shade of sunset blue. The jacket, too, was thrown, this time over a balcony and far out of sight. They’d pulled the ends of their shirt free from their pants by the time they turned the corner and slipped into the throng of people. Considering how everything had gone down, it would have been good to have been armed tonight, but, at the same time, the Fox was glad that they weren’t. They wouldn’t have been able to hide the weapons they usually carried. As it was, they had to deftly turn their vibranium-tipped gloves inside out and push them between their belt and pants while arranging the blue shirt over the lump as best as they could. 

Deft fingers slipped a pair of sunglasses from an unsuspecting tourist’s pocket; the Fox pushed them up into their hair, nestling neatly in against the strands. It added believability to their flushed features; the redness of the cheeks no longer the result of running and instead a reminder of a day spent lounging in the sun mixing with the glow of evening excitement. 

One step, two. Three and then a half-shrug as they slipped between a press of people and offered a charming smile to their unsuspecting mark. A flutter of lashes had the Fox gliding into the only empty seat at an outdoor pop-up bar and stealing the attention of their target.

“And how is your night going?” the disguised Fox asked the handsome stranger. They made sure to let their voice catch in their throat, a sign of being parched as they coughed daintily, a hand pressed in between their clavicle. 

“Good. Better now,” the stranger replied. “Can I buy you a drink?”

The Fox smiled wily and coy and inched their chair a little closer. 

“That would be lovely,” they said as, behind them, the sound of running footsteps and pushed bodies caused an outcry on the chaotic street. 

* * *

**Chapter One Preview:**

It didn’t take long for Jarvis’ surprisingly strong hand to yank that pillow away, too, and when he did, Bucky was left defenceless to the assault of both the sunlight and the butler’s attention. There had been many mornings in Bucky’s life that he considered as being the absolute worst — that was another good reason to avoid them altogether — but this was quickly moving up the list. 

“When you have finished your coffee,” the butler continued, readjusting the embroidered lapels of the dressing gown at the foot of the bed, “your father would like you to join him in the family chambers.” 

Bucky’s first thought was to just never finish the coffee. It was rebellious and stupid, but if there was one thing that the prince understood, it was the power of choosing one's words carefully. If he never touched or finished the coffee, then technically he never had to meet with his father. The devil was in the details. 


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for you all to meet the man of the hour. Or well, both men of the hour, because, in a crazy twist of fate and un-Minka-ness, our two fav guys meet in chapter fucking one! This is a first!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, oh why, do I always leave Christmas stuff to the last minute? And why, oh why, do all my friends do the same? Needless to say, there’s been some frantic running around today; bottle shop trips and OMG I need gift tags odysseys and then insane (unfortunately sober) wrapping parties on the floor. And I don’t even like Christmas! 
> 
> Anyway. 
> 
> I’ve already bingo’ed, but gonna keep filling in squares until the end of the year. 
> 
> **Title:** The Midnight Fox – Chapter One  
>  **Square Filled:** Y4 – Bodyguard  
>  **Author:** Minka  
>  **Pairing:** Steve/Bucky  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Warnings:** None  
>  **Summary:** Amid the flashing lights, high fashion, and crystalline champagne flutes of the royal court of Estia, a deadly intrigue is brewing. There are whispers in the night; talk of a plot to assassinate the king and an uprising forged in blood and stolen art. 
> 
> With the bars of his gilded cage closing in, Crown Prince James Barnes faces his own struggles. Dealing with a city more enamoured with a masked vigilante than him is starting to get old fast, and his stuffy new bodyguard is as infuriating as he is potentially dangerous. 
> 
> As chaos threatens to rip the country apart and the list of Royal allies begins to run thin, the Prince is forced to face the demons lurking in his past. After all, no party can last indefinitely, and no secrets remain buried forever.

**Chapter One**

_Wake up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy…_

_Monday 27th_

_8am_

“Good morning, Your Highness.” 

There were a lot of ways that Bucky liked to wake up, but being pulled out of a deep, limb-numbing sleep by the cheery voice of an old man certainly wasn’t one of them. For that matter, nor was waking up in the actual morning. That was just horrible. 

Bucky grimaced, lost somewhere between asleep and awake, and pulled the blankets further up over his face. The sound of rings sliding across a curtain rod had the same effect as nails on a chalkboard, and the brilliant, butter-yellow sunlight that inundated the room afterwards was nauseating. 

The feeble attempt to keep the light out was made even more fruitless when the body of that voice moved towards the bed. A strong hand yanked at the blanket, ripping it from Bucky’s grasp and flooding his tightly closed eyelids with that horrible light. 

The prince curled in on himself defensively, his face burrowing into the pillow as he let out a pitiful yowl. He already knew that it was a lost cause — once Jarvis got the blankets away, there was just no escape — but that didn’t mean that Bucky had to surrender easily. 

“Lucky I came home alone,” Bucky muttered. It was also lucky that he was wearing pants, but he guessed there was no need in pointing that out. Jarvis had been the head butler for the royal court since before Bucky was even born; the old man had probably seen Bucky naked more times than Bucky’s own parents. It was the risk that Brit took every time he unceremoniously let himself into Bucky’s quarters.

“And for the last time,” the crown prince of Estia growled into his pillow. His voice rose in volume as he repeated the age-old protest, but now there was a rough edge to his tone that spoke of a wild, late night. “It’s Bucky.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” the older man replied, unperturbed. 

Well, that was that, then. Bucky had at least tried, and right now he was in no condition to argue the point any further. 

“Your father has requested your presence at breakfast,” the butler continued as he moved around the room. Closets opened and closed, the sound the hinges made enough noise to have Bucky grimacing. 

He was far too hungover for this, and his limbs were heavy and uncooperative and unable to reach for the StarkPhone on his bedside table to check the time. Not that it mattered; it was clearly too early to be awake and dealing with chirpy butlers. 

Then again, breakfast did tend to happen in the morning hours of the day. That must have been why Bucky very rarely partook in the meal. 

As a complete opposite, Jarvis was the very definition of a morning person. He rose before the sun and actually seemed to like doing so. It was unnatural and mildly sickening in Bucky’s opinion. 

The ageing butler puttered around the room. He opened drapes and tied them back while directing a maid to set down a tray bearing a glass of water, two aspirin and a steaming cup of coffee on the bedside table. The coffee smelled amazing, but it was still too far away for Bucky’s liking. 

Finally, Jarvis pulled out the young royal’s dressing gown and slippers from the dark closet and made a point of laying them on the edge of the bed, as if Bucky would actually wear that old thing. All the while, the butler had maintained a constant stream of pleasantly pitched small talk, obliterating any possibility that the crown prince would be able to return to sleep.

“It is a beautiful day outside, Your Highness. You should consider a walk in the gardens. The bougainvillea is especially pleasant this year—exceptional colour. You so used to enjoy the yard when you were younger. I know that-”

Bucky covered his head with a pillow and groaned out loud as the incessant chatter continued. But mentions of gardeners he hardly remembered, and that spot he used to dig in as a child and how he used to love staring into the koi pond still floated through the feather downing. 

It didn’t take long for Jarvis’ surprisingly strong hand to yank that pillow away, too, and when he did, Bucky was left defenceless to the assault of both the sunlight and the butler’s attention. There had been many mornings in Bucky’s life that he considered as being the absolute worst — that was another good reason to avoid them altogether — but this was quickly moving up the list. 

“When you have finished your coffee,” the butler continued, readjusting the embroidered lapels of the dressing gown at the foot of the bed, “your father would like you to join him in the family chambers.” 

Bucky’s first thought was to just never finish the coffee. It was rebellious and stupid, but if there was one thing that the prince understood, it was the power of choosing one's words carefully. If he never touched or finished the coffee, then technically he never had to meet with his father. The devil was in the details. 

He was about to say as much when his bloodshot eyes caught sight of Jarvis’ kind, expectant face. That really killed the snarky opportunity. 

Jarvis had always been loyal to a fault, and while it was hardly a unique circumstance — a rich kid becoming close to the family butler was a common trope — Bucky generally thought of Jarvis as family. He wouldn’t go as far as to say that Jarvis was a stand-in father figure. He was more like a stern uncle that didn’t tolerate his shit and had endless time to chastise Bucky for his impulsive and often irresponsible antics. That had generally saved Bucky from the more formidable reprimands of his father, at least as a kid. Bucky couldn’t fault the butler for doing what he’d always done — follow his father’s orders and maintain the household. 

Rubbing at his eyes and doing little to stifle a gaping yawn, Bucky forced himself to uncurl from his borderline fetal position. Damn Jarvis and his silent guilt trips! The butler was such a damn professional that Bucky ended up nursing the steaming coffee before he really realised that he was no longer horizontal.

The coffee was just the way he liked it, especially after a hard night. Hot and strong and black. No sugar because his body was ready to reject anything other than the very basics. He ignored the water and downed the painkillers with a grimace and another deep gulp from the mug. 

Letting out an exhausted sigh, Bucky looked yearningly over his shoulder at his bed, but for the life of him, he couldn’t come up with a viable excuse to toss the coffee and throw himself dramatically back into the pillows. 

Instead, he simply downed the rest of the mug in one burning go, and shuffled to his feet. Standing was a challenge. It felt all sorts of not good, and the room tipped a little as he shifted his hips from side to side before lifting heavy arms to stretch out his back. His spine cracked in a way that made Bucky groan. With his twenty-seventh birthday fast approaching, he was positive that he was already turning into an old man. 

Jarvis was fluffing about the room as Bucky made his way to the bathroom, idly rubbing his hand under his singlet to massage his lower back. He didn’t quite get there before the butler let out a little tsk of disapproval. 

“What have you done now?” Jarvis asked. That alarmingly strong hand caught Bucky by the right elbow where he drew Bucky’s gaze down to his own arm. A deep, dark purple bloomed over the side of his shoulder, the bruise equally as swollen as it was coloured. 

“Boats and Patron just don’t mix,” Bucky grimaced at the memory of the tumble. No wonder he was so sore; that was going to hurt for days. “Thank fuck I don’t wear heels, hey? I’d be a disaster,” he joked while shrugging away from the prodding fingers. It was just a bruise, and the more Jarvis poked at it, the more the pain made Bucky squeamish. That was the last thing his stomach needed right now. 

Jarvis didn’t seem to like the joke at all, but he shooed Bucky towards the bathroom, muttering about washing his face while he went to look for some arnica cream to help the swelling.

With little choice in the matter, Bucky did as he was instructed. The dressing gown was categorically rejected, though; no matter how old he felt, he still wasn’t someone’s grandfather wandering out to get the newspaper. Instead, he settled for a pair of relaxed jeans and a soft sweater, and once he’d managed to straighten his wayward hair, he was out the door before Jarvis could return and continue the fussing. 

Call Bucky crazy, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was going to be a bad day. 

* * *

The private chambers of the royal family offered a splash of modern convenience in the otherwise stuffy expanses of the heritage-listed palace. Unlike the official Breakfast Room, or the State Dining Room, or the Tea Room, or even the private Dining Room of the Monarch, the informal rooms were closed to the public and had been remodelled within the last decade. The lack of heavy drapes and golden everything made for a much more relaxed environment, even if the red dot-lights of ceiling-mounted security cameras were unmissable. 

While the table could easily accommodate ten, it was set just for the two royals in residence. That didn’t stop the place settings from being elaborate and ornate, and Bucky blanched at the sight of the obligatory champagne glasses set next to the water glass, the juice glass, the china teacup and the coffee mug. Thankfully there was no alcohol in sight; he wasn’t sure his stomach could handle the smell right now. There were, of course, three different forks, two spoons and four knives all making up the regal place setting, so the chef had clearly prepared an overabundant feast. 

Honestly, Bucky really just wanted a cheeseburger. Or a kebab. Or a bucket of hot chips and gravy. Anything greasy and salty that he could eat with his hands before passing back out. 

King George Barnes the III sat at the table, his StarkPad held up in front of him in the way that only those who’d grown up with newspapers tended to do. While his face was mostly obscured from view, Bucky could see the deep frown between his eyes highlighted by the screen’s glow. Clearly, the King’s morning wasn’t off to a good start either, and Bucky had a sinking feeling that he knew why. He could at least guess. 

Bucky shuffled into the seat set for him and, without a word, reached for another coffee. With any luck, he’d be able to kill his splitting headache with caffeine. His stomach was still in the state of post-champagne, post-vodka-rum-tequila and god only knew what else seediness, so he forewent the sugar and milk he’d usually add to his second cup. When one of the waiters attempted to slide a heavily laden plate in under his nose, Bucky waved it off with a shake of his head and a flippant flick of his fingers. He wasn’t usually dismissive to the staff, but then he also wasn’t usually up and dressed in the goddamn morning either. 

“You have to eat,” the King’s voice cut in. The waiter paused, clearly conflicted about how to proceed. George Barnes cleared his throat once, and Bucky found the plate pushed in front of him — as politely as possible, of course — and a linen napkin unfurled over his lap. 

Staring into the stomach-churning colours of grapefruit, Greek yoghurt and muesli, Bucky told himself it could be worse. It could clearly be better — oily bacon and buttery toast came to mind — but it could also be worse. Somehow. His brain wasn’t clear enough to think of the specifics yet, but he was sure the option was there.

Bucky made a point of poking the yoghurt with his spoon, mixing things around in an indication that he would eventually eat, before turning his attention back to the coffee. Cupping the mug in his hands, he blinked his dry eyes and stared into the dark abyss of the drink. 

“Late night, James?” George finally inquired. It was a rhetorical question, but at least it was asked softly and without the usual resonance. 

“You could say that,” Bucky muttered, his breath blowing the steam off the top of his coffee. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this seedy. Then again, he could also blame the hour. He usually slept the effects of alcohol off longer, and then woke up when it was time to chase it down with a hair-of-the-dog and start again. 

This was just torture, and not only was Bucky sure that the room was spinning, but he felt like every part of him ached. His arms; his legs; his damn back and throat; it was all just too much. 

“James,” George finally said. The StarkPad was placed down on the table in a way that invoked a sense of dread in Bucky’s heart. The screen was still on showing the news program that the King had been watching. He’d hit the pause button, and Bucky balked at the blurred image of his own face. “We need to talk.”

Bucky cringed at both the tone and the words. He might have been hungover, but he sure as hell wasn’t stupid. He knew where this was going. If anything, he was surprised that it had taken this long. Still, a feeling of uncertainty curled in the pit of his stomach that had little to do with his actions last night. 

His father’s health had been on the decline for some time now. It wasn’t public knowledge, but there were still rumours. Murmurs in the press and among the upper echelons that hit a little too close to the truth to be comfortable. 

It didn’t help that Estia’s law enforcement was still struggling with the influx of illegal trade and drug-running that had sullied their borders. For the most part, the country was a peaceful one, but that had left them weak and exposed. At least that was what the Minister for Defence claimed. They didn’t police their borders as much as other countries, and now if the press was to be believed, the shadowy hand of a crime lord had tightened around the port. With France and nearby Italy cracking down on what they perceived as an untamed ‘crime den’ and a blight on the Mediterranean Sea, Estia and her ruler had found themselves a hot topic for the press. 

Bucky knew that the state of current affairs was difficult on his father; every day, the aging man looked older, more tired. But Bucky had hoped that they had some time yet before _The Discussion_. 

“I never see you lately, son,” the King began. Kindness, Bucky noted, and an attempt at gentleness. Next would be the guilt trip. “It’s rather tiresome for an old man to eat breakfast alone and find out about his son’s hijinks in the news.”

There it was. Bucky took a sip of his coffee to stop himself from breathing in too deep and too loud. His father may have been an ageing man, but he still had his razor-sharp senses. He’d notice that discomfort in Bucky and use it to weasel in under his skin. 

It still gave Bucky cause to hesitate, unsure exactly what the King was referring to. There were several reasons the prince had appeared in the papers as of late, but he honestly had no desire to discuss them with his father. And honestly, Bucky highly doubted that George wanted to know the finer details of his personal life anyway. It was a topic often best left ignored. 

“Well, you know me, father,” Bucky said with a forced grin, “I’m a busy guy.”

“So I’ve heard,” the King said dryly. Bucky flinched at the tone; it reminded him of being reprimanded for skipping out on his French lessons as a child, and it carried the same deep resonance used when the King addressed heads of state. George had long held the reputation of an orator and was known for speaking slowly and choosing his words with care. 

Somehow realising this only made Bucky want to squirm even more. He was far too hungover for this shit.

“James. You know I love you as you are. But I need — Estia needs — for you to take a more active role in governing. I’m getting older, son. I need your help to ensure our country receives the care and attention it deserves. Also,” the King added with a sigh. 

“I need to think about abdicating.” 

And there it was. Plainly said and clear as day. A slap in the face that Bucky would never be ready for.

Bucky blanched but forced himself to keep his expression as calm as possible before replying. He unconsciously mimicked his father’s slow delivery; a thoughtfulness that was inherent to the men in his family. “I hear what you’re saying, Father, I do. But you know I’m not ready. You do. Everyone knows.” 

Estia’s wayward prince was a hot topic not just in Estia, but in all of Europe. Hell, there were even American websites that liked to track the comings and goings of Prince Barnes in a purely stalkerish way. Not that Bucky really minded. It was amazing what a little attention could do for one’s public image, and thanks to his renowned popularity, there wasn’t a single door in the world that wouldn’t open for him. 

While that served him well and gave Bucky the freedom to move through life as he wanted, it certainly brought in the critics. At least once a month some upstart journalist decided that they’d try to make their career by delivering a hard-hitting piece on the future of the Estian Royal line while listing off all the ways that the young prince was unsuitable to succeed to the throne. Then there were the tabloid stories of his sexual escapades, conquests and antics; they filtered in a lot more frequently and came with a lot more gaudy detail. 

From the glimpse Bucky had had of the StarkPad screen, he figured that his tryst with Hollywood’s favourite heartthrob was the story making the rounds today. It was breaking news, he guessed, especially given that said action hero had spent the better part of a year denying rumours of his sexuality. 

It might not seem like it to people akin to his father, but Bucky had a lot on his plate right now. 

The King shook his head, clearly disappointed, though not surprised. “You need to learn that serving your country is a greater purpose than the nightly pursuit of beauty and pleasure.”

Bucky’s public bisexuality had never been a point of contention between them, which Bucky was honestly thankful for. His father had only ever loved one woman, but he’d made it clear that he could understand and respect Bucky’s orientation and choices… up to a point. Thankfully, he’d never arranged a marriage for Bucky; however, Bucky believed that was more due to respecting his mother’s final wishes than anything more profound like believing that love should come first. George did, however, like to make it known that a prince’s love for his country should trump all other passions, which is where they tended to clash, and Bucky knew that George worried over the line of succession. Where would the next line of little princes and princesses come from if Bucky not only rejected heterosexual norms but also refused to settle down enough to explore other options? 

Clearly seeing his son on the arm of the American actor had triggered a visceral response this morning, but there were always ulterior motives behind these uncomfortable chats.

“This has to stop,” the King said, his hand flicking to the StarkPad. The screen was now powered down, but neither of them needed the visual to know what he meant. It was a little scandalous, and the photographer really needed to be commended on their timing and angle. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Bucky tried to reason. It may look like they were getting down and dirty on a public bench, but honestly, Bucky had just tripped and landed in his lap. Totally innocent. 

“It’s not just this incident. You know that.” George had that reprimanding tone back, and it made Bucky bristle with irritation. “It’s time you-”

“I do my part,” Bucky cut in. This time his tone was clipped, lacking the reserved thoughtfulness of royal contemplation. “Estia needed to be put on the map. After Ma and -” Bucky trailed off momentarily, finding the name of his sister turning to ash in his mouth. 

He opted to change tactics. “You said it yourself. We needed the publicity, and I’ve done that. Even American’s can point us out on a map, thanks to me. And they generally struggle to find somewhere even as large as Russia.” 

“James-” 

Whatever the King was about to say, Bucky was spared the horror by the sound of Jarvis clearing his throat as he entered the room. 

“Your Majesty,” Jarvis said. Bucky didn’t need to look at the butler to know that he’d be bowing. Jarvis was ever the respectful, perfect attendant, even when interrupting. His steps were feather-light as he moved to the table, his presence hovering near the StarkPad. “There is something you should see.” 

Alright, so maybe things on that bench hadn’t _remained_ totally innocent. It would be just Bucky’s luck to have had the paparazzi of doom lurking around last night. Usually, they clicked their one shot and then moved on. The prince was hot news, and his face had magazines flying off the shelves and website traffic through the roof. But Estia was a known playground for the world’s rich and famous; there was always someone important to snag a few photos of and the more celebs caught in one night, the higher the pay packet for the paparazzi. 

Bucky prepared himself for the worst as his father tapped the screen and flicked the sound up high. Instead of racy footage of Bucky with an enthusiastic tongue down his throat — and yeah, maybe his hands had wandered in places not considered polite for public viewing — the sound of gunfire echoed from the device. 

It wasn’t his own handsome features, but the vulpine mask of the Midnight Fox that filled the screen. Some enterprising soul had captured a video of the masked vigilante as they crouched on a rooftop, about to make their escape after apparently handing over some low-level arms dealers to the police. The vigilante had come out well, looking conspicuously heroic, their back to the full moon and the gold flourishes on the mask shining bright. 

Bucky cringed and rolled his eyes. No one who wore a mask wanted to be photographed, and yet the vigilante still managed to somehow look amazing. It wasn’t fair. Half the photos the press used of Bucky had him one-eye squinting and mouth agape, and he was usually trying to get the right angle photographed. 

Worse, the headline itself seemed to have a negative effect on his father; the old King looked at the StarkPad and seemed to visibly age. 

“Vulpes Nocte at it again,” the reporter claimed. “Estia’s very own unidentified superhero once again saves the day, catching those the state police fail to apprehend.” 

Bucky felt no love for the vigilante, and he’d often been very vocal about it. The Midnight Fox was a constant hot topic in Estia, and once the wine was in and the wit was out, the masked fighter often became a cause for debate. People loved to talk about their — Bucky was sure the Fox was a male, but others often claimed it was a woman — exploits. Were his actions right or wrong? Was he helping the state and supporting the crown, or undermining the authority of the King and police? How did he even know all the people he’d apprehended were criminals? Was he getting secret information somewhere? Was he an international spy and, if so, should that constitute as a declaration of war?

The reporter carried on, praising the Fox’s activities as patriotic acts of heroism and bravery. A true Estian and a champion of the people. 

“Why not get him to rule?” Bucky muttered bitterly. 

The King sighed, all the fire gone out of him. If he’d heard Bucky’s remark, he didn’t acknowledge it. He set the StarkPad aside with a frown on his face. Bucky tried not to notice how old and frail the expression made his father look. 

“James, I’m afraid the topic is not up for discussion.” If there was one thing that growing up a prince had taught Bucky, it was that everything was open for discussion. It was just a matter of slinging the right words and playing the right cards. 

He was about to say as much when his father waved his hand to pre-emptively silence him.

“I was hoping to avoid this sort of confrontation. I was hoping you’d come to this conclusion on your own. You’re a grown man, and you know I don’t enjoy telling you what to do. But I am the King, and like it or not, you are my heir. The responsibility that entails is bigger than either of us.”

The King took a sip of water, swallowing as if it pained him before he continued. “We’re living in difficult and dangerous times,” George carried on. His eyes flicked to the StarkPad thoughtfully before continuing. 

“I’ve let you live your life. I’ve let you wander and play and enjoy yourself, but times are changing, and you need to change with them.” 

Maybe it was the hangover, or perhaps it was the result of some profoundly unsettled part of him that always knew he was on borrowed time, but Bucky felt like the ground was falling out from underneath him. He didn’t even know what to say, or how to argue. Really? His father had a point — as much as Bucky didn’t want to admit that — and for one of the first times in his life, the usually silver-tongued prince found himself speechless. 

“To that end, I’ve decided to make a few changes around here. You will be required to attend to matters of state.” Bucky lifted a finger and made ready to speak. He did that sort of thing all the time. He played dignitary to visiting ambassadors, he gave speeches at grand openings; he shook hands and kissed babies on the head and cut ribbons with novelty scissors.

“Not just the public events that — and don’t think I don’t know this — you sneak out of once the alcohol starts flowing.” That promptly shut Bucky up. “You’ll attend council meetings with me, and return to political studies. It’s been a long time coming, and I have been lax in letting you shun your responsibilities.” 

“Father—”

The King shook his head, cutting Bucky off. “Furthermore.” Bucky blanched; nothing that came after the word ‘furthermore’ was going to be good. “Minister Pierce has secured a new bodyguard for you.”

Bucky opened his mouth to protest, but the King held up a hand, silencing him again. “He is a veteran of the American military, special ops, and he comes highly recommended. I think you will find him harder to shake than your previous guards, and he will aid in keeping you out of the gossip columns and delivering you to scheduled appointments.”

“So not a bodyguard, but a babysitter from hell?” That’s what that sounded like. Absolute hell. And of course, it was Alexander Pierce, the Minister for Defence, who’d managed to find such a horrible sounding guard.

“Only if you behave like a baby,” the King countered firmly. 

Mischievous and creative, Bucky had been adept at slipping free from state surveillance and security teams since his teens. But even as an adult Bucky found his ability to confound his assigned guards to be a useful talent. No one wants to be followed twenty-four hours a day, to have their entire lives and all their secrets, big and small, observed by a stoic and often silently judgmental companion. Usually, nothing more exciting than a good party followed; he was a young man with a thriving social life, after all. 

To say that Bucky changed bodyguards as frequently as he changed his underwear was almost an understatement. He had a lengthy and sordid history of losing bodyguards as quickly as he got them. It had become a bit of a long-running joke both in the tabloids and within his circle of friends. If he didn’t drive them crazy enough to just outright quit, then his father — or the head of state security — would fire the poor brutes for failing miserably at their job. Or, of course, they’d meet with some sort of unseemly incident in the press, or they’d end up somehow implicated in something too raunchy for King George to tolerate. And if none of that worked, then Bucky upped the ante with his stage eleven clinger act; that worked exceptionally well with the narrow-minded, sexually insecure bigots. Bucky was by no means against throwing a damsel in distress, _I’m terrified and afraid and will cling to you like a child_ fit if it would scare a guard away, especially once paired with the knowledge of Bucky’s sexual preferences. 

While he did feel sorry for those guards who’d been fired over the years, he comforted himself in knowing that it was probably for the best. He didn’t know of many bodyguards living on a measly military salary who’d relish the thought of following him into some of the sticky situations Bucky often pursued. 

As Bucky was chewing over these thoughts in consternation, the aforementioned new bodyguard stepped into the room and bowed stiffly.

Bucky didn’t want to give him the time of day, but he was only human; his eye was drawn to his new shadow with morbid curiosity. Bucky was glad that he’d long abandoned the coffee he’d been sipping; otherwise, the risk of spitting it out would have been very real. 

The man that walked into the room was not really what Bucky had been expecting. His father had said American military, so Bucky’s mind had skipped to the stereotype jar-head with an eye scar and one of those wooden toothpicks protruding from his mouth. _Ex_ -military too, and hired by Bucky’s arch-enemy Minister Pierce, so Bucky expected fifty or older, and prone to screaming out everything in simple, monosyllabic, disjointed half-sentences. That seemed like just the type Pierce would find and hire to torture Bucky. 

Instead, Bucky found himself having to blink not just twice, but three times to make sure that his foggy brain wasn’t conjuring up some sort of shitty bodyguard fantasy like those horrible stories found on Wattpad. 

It was a struggle to keep his expression neutral as the American executed a near-perfect bow — there were flaws there, and Bucky reserved the right to pick on them — before standing to full height. The man’s hands immediately went behind his back, his feet shifting a comfortable foot apart. 

Fucking military. 

Clearly, the service had done the guy some good though. He was tall and built like a — Bucky’s mind searched for the word before coming up with a brick shithouse. He almost nodded to himself at the observation. No one checked out a brick shithouse, so it was a good analogy for the American because Bucky really wasn’t checking him out. He hardly noticed the dark blonde hair or the immaculately clipped beard that seemed to perfectly compliment the suit he was wearing. It did amazing things for the guy’s shoulders and the size of his arms, but Bucky noticed that only due to a precursory glance. And no comment would be made about his shoulder to waist ratio. That was no big deal either. 

Besides, any guy over six foot tall could look good in a cheap suit if they really tried. 

One thing Bucky did notice was the man’s eyes. They were blue; a very particular shade of blue. Like that point on the horizon on a summer day, where the sky met the Mediterranean Sea and the line between the two blurred. Blue like that. 

Bucky reached for his coffee just for something to do, and thankfully, he had the mental constitution to watch the movement of his hand. It stopped him from staring. 

“Steven Grant Rogers, Your Majesties,” the man introduced himself with a mild twang. At least he didn’t sound overly American. “It will be an honour to serve you.”

Bucky could already tell that his father was impressed with the man. The term _smitten_ even came to mind; he could see it in the way George smiled to himself and inclined his head back as the man had bowed. 

As if to hammer that point home, Bucky’s father took a sip of his tea before pointing out: “He ran private security for Tony Stark.”

Of fucking course he did. Bucky’s eyes once again rolled heavenward, grimacing slightly at the way it made his head hurt. If the man — this Steven Rogers — objected to being spoken about as if he weren’t right there in the room, he didn’t make it known. 

“And then what?” Bucky asked testily. He refused to be dazzled by the brute’s past, even if it did involve looking after the world's most crucial billionaire. “He fired you?”

They weren’t exactly scathing, cutting words, but Bucky had spent enough time around military men to know that they hated to be questioned. Or to have their competency put to the test. It should have done it; should have been the push needed to have the man’s eye twitching, and his irritation irked right from the start. By now Bucky was a pro at this. It wasn’t his first rodeo, and Bucky had had his last bodyguard grinding his teeth within five minutes. 

Instead, and much to Bucky's disapproval, this Rogers guy didn’t even flinch. 

“No, Your Highness,” Rogers said. “But I fear my usefulness decreased after Mr Stark perfected his Iron Patriot protection model.” There wasn’t even an ounce of contention in his tone, and Bucky hated him for that. Robotic. A ‘yes’ man. No wonder his father liked him. No wonder Pierce liked him. “I resigned to seek employment somewhere I could make a difference.” 

“And that brought you here?” Bucky challenged. 

His father was about to object, but Rogers beat him to it. Bucky had expected a jaw clench or a slight twitch of the eye. Maybe a subtle shift in weight as the soldier stood his ground. Instead, the man lifted his jaw and turned — fucking turned — to look Bucky dead in the eyes. 

“From what I hear, Your Highness,” Rogers said, all rounded words and careful diplomatic tones. “Estia is in turmoil, and your safety is paramount.” Those blue eyes focused in on Bucky’s face in a way that had Bucky shifting ever so slightly in his chair. The intelligence in them made Bucky nervous. He wasn’t used to being so blatantly stared down by anyone, let alone a palace employee. It made Bucky uncomfortable; like he was some child being scolded. “So I do believe that I’ve come to the right place.” 

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, and his lips pulled into a tight, displeased line. He could see his father smirking out of the corner of his eyes. The ageing king looked far too happy with himself and the guard’s stubborn retort. 

“You know,” Bucky said through an exhale of breath that left no room for a reply. “The only thing dangerous right now is my vodka induced gag reflex.”

“James!” His father chastised, “that is not a conversation for the breakfast table.”

The King might have checkmated Bucky with the new guard, but he could still be predicted, especially when it came to etiquette. 

“You’re right,” Bucky said, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll excuse myself, then. Father,” he said with a small nod. He might have been willing to lash out with embarrassing words, but even he couldn’t bring himself to be totally rude. 

Standing didn’t feel like the best idea, but Bucky was a pro at soldiering on through the head spins, and funky belly rumbles that came after a big night. While he’d nodded at his father, the bodyguard didn’t get the same niceties. Bucky fixed him with a weathering, unimpressed glare as he moved from the table. 

The guard was still in the doorway, so Bucky had to get closer than he liked, and hangover or not, it was impossible to miss just how tall and wide the guy really was. The bodyguard seemed to broadcast sternness and inflexibility. Bucky took him in with an appraising eye — it was a shame that a man so objectively handsome was little more than an obedient toy soldier. 

Rogers at least knew proper respect. He moved his bulk out of the way and offered a small bow as Bucky breezed past him. 

If it had been left at that, then Bucky would have been alright. Salty, and still annoyed that his father had started tightening the ropes and was seeking to use some stuffy guard to try and rein him in. But it didn’t end there. It didn’t end with the guard bowing and leaving Bucky alone. The sound of the door closing behind him was one thing, but it was the thump of rubber-soled boots on the marble floor of the hallway that had Bucky’s hackles rising. 

Bucky glanced over his shoulder to confirm his suspicions. Sure enough, Steven Grant-fucking-Rogers was just a few steps behind, trailing along after Bucky like a highly alert killer puppy. 

“You don’t need to follow me in the palace,” Bucky huffed over his shoulder. “You can go and lounge with the other guards out back until I need you.” 

“Threats to your person can happen anywhere, Your Highness,” the American quipped back. It was enough to have Bucky’s upper lip twisting in disgusted irritation. “I’ll walk you back to your apartments.” 

Bucky had no plans of running off right now. It was morning time, for heaven’s sake! There was nothing to do this time of day, and anyone who tried to claim otherwise was clearly lying to themselves. No one actually enjoyed going for a morning run, and as good as coffee was, it made no sense to go out to get one to ‘start the day’. That totally negated the concept of not dealing with people pre-coffee. Get a machine for home. Have coffee at lunchtime in bed like any normal, sane person. Maybe Bucky could make that some form of royal decree now that his father expected him to help with matters of state. Either it would end with the favourable result of all mornings being cancelled, or Estia’s Ministers booting Bucky out and making his father see reason. 

The prince was half-way down the hall before he realised just how lost in his own thoughts he’d become. 

Sighing dramatically, he again waved his hand at the guard, shooing him away. 

“Perfectly safe and boring here. Go, like... catch a chicken or something.” There were, of course, no chickens to be caught, but Bucky had heard that quote in a movie once and had always wanted an excuse to use it. 

Behind him, the guard actually chortled, the strangled half-laugh being the first sign of any personality shown at all. It didn’t last long; Rogers cleared his throat, his steps keeping their steady pace. “I’ll escort you to your rooms, Your Highness,” he said, once again robotic and bland. 

Bucky rolled his eyes and gave up. He had too much of a head — and body — ache to be bothered to keep trying. 

There was one silver lining — though pleasant to look at and unfailingly professional, the bodyguard seemed to show no interest in being his friend. That was undoubtedly a plus and would make things easier for both of them. Bucky knew from experience that there was probably nothing worse than a chatty, over-eager wall of muscle, especially not when said wall was always in Bucky’s way, cramping his style.

So, while the morning had been horrible — and so early! — at least when Bucky shut his bedroom door in the other man’s face, it was met with no opposition. A peek through the view hole showed that the stoic soldier simply turned and crossed his arms, back to the door and expressionless face to the hallway.

Bucky really needed to start trusting his gut feelings more. Today was rotten to the core, and it wasn’t even nine-thirty.

* * *

**Chapter Two Preview:**

“Is he at least hot?” Nat asked.

“Not at all,” the prince groaned dramatically. So maybe that was a bit of a lie, but Bucky was sure he was pretty convincing. Nat wouldn’t call him out about it over the phone at least. “Jarhead American in desperate need of a fashion update, if not just to distract from the giant stick up his ass. It’s his most defining feature.”

“What a shame!” Natasha heaved a long-suffering sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points for anyone who can name that movie! 
> 
> Anyway, if you celebrate this time of year or don’t, or, if you’re like me (and most Aussies) are just showing up for the food and the alcohol, and you’re reading this before the big day, I hope you all have a good one! Stay safe and smart (especially those of you in hotspots) and again, if you’re like me and just despise this time of year, remember that this too shall pass. XD 
> 
> I’ll see you all before New Year! 
> 
> As always, you can stalk me on [Tumblr](https://minka-g.tumblr.com/) and now [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Minka_writes). 
> 
> And in the meantime, I really do love reading your thoughts and comments, and having chats about the story, so don’t be shy!


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I name drop in this fic like it’s going out of fashion, and this is the official first chapter of that hilarity. Strap yourselves in; between all the mentions and the digs at Steve being American, you could probably play a drinking game.
> 
> Also. When you get to the point that you want to throttle Bucky (because you will, and if you don’t then I’ll have to question what is wrong with you and why you’re reading my fics) just breathe. Smile. Plan to hurt him. Complain in the comments. But then remember who the writer is. Those of you who’ve lived through my other fics should know that I love Bucky and would never intentionally ruin him without a reason. Those of you who don’t know that… well. You’re just going to have to trust me. 
> 
> And for that final Bucky Barnes Bingo fill of the year:  
>  **Title:** The Midnight Fox – Chapter Two  
>  **Square Filled:** C3 – Open space = “Modern Royals”  
>  **Author:** Minka  
>  **Pairing:** Steve/Bucky  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Warnings:** None  
>  **Summary:** _Amid the flashing lights, high fashion, and crystalline champagne flutes of the royal court of Estia, a deadly intrigue is brewing. There are whispers in the night; talk of a plot to assassinate the king and an uprising forged in blood and stolen art.  
>  With the bars of his gilded cage closing in, Crown Prince James Barnes faces his own struggles. Dealing with a city more enamoured with a masked vigilante than him is starting to get old fast, and his stuffy new bodyguard is as infuriating as he is potentially dangerous.  
> As chaos threatens to rip the country apart and the list of Royal allies begins to run thin, the Prince is forced to face the demons lurking in his past. After all, no party can last indefinitely, and no secrets remain buried forever._

**Chapter Two**

_Dark handsome guys, skinny little ties; shades in the middle of the night_

Almost as soon as the door was securely shut behind him, Bucky whipped out his StarkPhone and pressed the most recent number. There was one person he could trust to sympathise with his plight; one person who would understand how terrible this new turn of events was; one person who had been helping him to ditch bodyguards since they both were children.

“Nat!” He hissed the moment she answered, and before the young woman even had a chance to greet him. “It’s me!”

“No shit, it’s you,” Nat replied drily. Bucky chose to ignore it, flailing the words off with a flap of his free hand that he knew Natasha couldn’t see. She’d always been prone to moments of deep sarcasm which was probably why they got along as well as they did.

To say that Natasha Romanoff was Bucky's oldest friend and closest confidant was an understatement. The term _thick as thieves_ had often been applied to them, and Bucky really couldn’t argue that.

He’d met the Russian immigrant way back when they were both clueless children longing for adventure and dreaming of what life could be.

Natasha had been on a school trip to the palace, learning the boring, stuffy history of the over-fluffed velvet drapes and other such pointless things. The tour was not intended to cover the private residential areas, of course, but Natasha had always had a nose for exploration and a deeply seated penchant for trouble. She’d wandered off from her group and encountered 8-year-old Bucky, a towel around his head and a mop in his hand. He’d greeted her with an outlandish — and, in hindsight, insensitive — accent, proclaiming that he was a French pirate and that she should bow before the mast!

Natasha, not at all phased to be faced with Estia’s prince, had smirked, picked up a broom and challenged pirate Bucky for the captaincy of his ship.

The audacity!

They had been fast friends ever since, exchanging childish letters and, as they grew older, texts, memes and FaceTiming each other while meeting up at least weekly. Natasha was two years older, but she never lorded that over Bucky, and between the two of them, there was nothing that they couldn’t achieve in their teens. 

Once they hit adulthood and discovered the wonders of hot men, stunning women and flaming shots sucked back through paper straws, there was no chance in hell of separating them. Bucky’s leather jackets and roguish smiles and dark hair went with Nat’s stonker heels and sequin dresses and heavy accent. Together they stormed Portside, and they _owned_ it. Everyone knew their names, and there wasn’t a single door that dared close before them. Calvin Harris wrote and dedicated a song to Nat long before the Taylor Swift thing ever happened. The Kardashian’s were always scrambling for attention on the Estian coast, but Bucky and Nat had been too busy hosting the Hemsworth clan to pay the pathetically needy socialites any attention.

Besides, one of the Habsburg’s had also been in town, and despite the whole unfortunate jaw thing, he’d been kinda cute and kinky as fuck.

Over the years, they’d partied with Avicii, and listened to him humming the first-ever beats of what would become _Hey Brother_. Countless sunrises were spent with Marcus Füreder — stage name Parov Stelar— prompting at least two of his songs on The Demon Diaries album. Even after their time together, Bucky liked to think that _Nobody’s Fool_ wasn’t written about him and their turbulent five-year fling, but somehow Bucky couldn’t be that self-oblivious. It was a lyrically scathing track that hit a little too close to home, but it was catchy as fuck, and if Bucky really wanted to think about it, then he could consider it a win. He was a _muse_ , and there was no denying that it was that particular song that had catapulted Marcus and his weird-ass stage name into the spotlight.

“We have a problem,” Bucky hissed into the phone while throwing his balcony doors wide open. A whisper of a summer breeze drifted lazily into the room, causing the curtains to swell and move as the space filled with the floral and petrichor scent of the garden.

From his balcony, the prince could see almost all of Estia, from the sweeping hills and rugged cliffs of the pinnacle the Royal Residence was built on, all the way down to the curve of the bay and the high-rises that made up the majority of the micro-country. At night, he could see the twinkle of lights and the flash of headlights as cars circled the scenic road up into the mountains that separated Estia from France. Not that Bucky was home at night often, but it was still a stunning view. 

Today though, and like most days, he had more important things on his mind than the everyday visage outside of his walls. His gilded cage, as he liked to put it.

Clearly, there was something about Bucky’s tone and the hurried, hushed way he spoke those four words, as Nat seemed to instantly understand. Then again, they’d been through this dance countless times before, so by now ‘we have a problem’ was basically their own unique form of code.

“Oh god, already?” Natasha groaned. Bucky had known that Nat would understand; after all, they’d only just finished finding ways to exploit the last one. “We just cracked Matteo.” The distinct whine and legitimate distress in her voice pleased Bucky to no ends. He’d known that she’d have his back and would feel his pain.

“I know,” he huffed in response. It had taken them close to seven weeks to send Matteo Lastra packing, and that wasn’t through lack of trying. The man had been steadfast as a rock, and about as intelligent to match. Bucky had nicknamed him The Neanderthal which, while nasty, was a decidedly apt description. The man had been all grunts and frowns, simple sentences and monosyllabic orders. ‘ _Get in the car_ ’, and ‘ _not now_ ’, and just plain old ‘ _no_ ’ were his favourite things to say.

It was such a shame that he’d been found asleep on duty with his pants down and a copy of Estia Today open to a remarkably flattering double-page spread of Bucky.

Of course, Matteo swore that he hadn’t been doing what everyone assumed and that he had been drugged and framed, but what was done, was done. The Minister for Defence terminated the contract and sent the Italian packing back to Florence with a warning not to come back.

Bucky had watched him go with a wave and a smirk that probably gave a little too much away.

Still, that had only been a week ago. It usually took longer to secure a replacement, especially with the prince’s track record and reputation for being a handful. He’d already burned his way through most Estian candidates, and the German branch of I.b.s was still angry about the disgraceful conclusion to their last contract. Honestly, though, it wasn’t Bucky’s fault that the German tank of a man had gone all gooey and borderline stalkerish over Nat.

But with one of the world’s largest Personal Protection agencies refusing all requests relating to the Estian prince, and no Estian military men self-destructive enough to take the posting, Bucky had assumed that he’d have some time. Room to breathe and be himself and enjoy life without some suit following him around and reporting everything back to his father. Or, worse still, Alexander Pierce.

Bucky had, of course, forgotten about the Americans. Bloody resilient, they were, and Bucky clearly hadn’t burned enough bridges with them to put a stop to all contracts.

There was always time, though, and when there was a will, there was a way. When push came to shove, this Steve Rogers would break like all the rest. It was just a matter of discovering precisely what button to press.

“Is he at least hot?” Nat asked.

Bucky glanced at the door, wondering how sharp the new guard’s hearing might be. The guy looked typical military, so that suggested sharp and perceptive. But people generally became _ex-military_ for a reason, so Bucky could hope for a few loose screws and some shoddy hearing.

“Not at all,” the prince groaned dramatically. So maybe that was a bit of a lie, but Bucky was sure he was pretty convincing. Nat wouldn’t call him out about it over the phone at least. “Jarhead American in desperate need of a fashion update, if not just to distract from the giant stick up his ass. It’s his most defining feature.”

“What a shame!” Natasha heaved a long-suffering sigh. Bucky could picture her rolling her green eyes and baring her teeth in a snarl. After all, there was a reason they were friends; Natasha was easily as judgemental as Bucky. “Why is it so much to ask for Americans to all look like Ryan Gosling?”

Natasha had a bit of a Gosling fetish, but who didn’t? Bucky would climb him like a tree any day. The guy was a legend, and even Bucky had to admit that he’d have reservations about ditching a bodyguard who looked like _that_.

Still, though. “I think that’s probably because he’s Canadian,” Bucky pointed out. Not that he’d been IMDB stalking recently or anything.

“Is he?” the voice on the other end of the phone mused. “I thought that was the other one. You know, the other hot Ryan. From the pizza place show.”

“Naaat,” Bucky whined while throwing himself down on the freshly made bed. The action didn’t do any wonders for his hangover, but being horizontal and surrounded by soft things balanced that discomfort out. As much as he enjoyed thinking about Ryan Gosling’s face, that wasn’t the priority right now. “Focus! What are we going to do?”

“Move to Canada?”

Bucky hissed and rolled his eyes. He knew that Nat was just egging him on now and taking the piss, but it didn’t help. He needed a plan! Direction. A way to get rid of this new shadow as soon as humanly possible.

“Well,” Natasha sucked in a deep, resigned breath. Bucky could hear her typing in the background. For a moment, it struck him as odd, but then he often forgot that Nat had a day job. While Bucky would never use the offensive term _commoner_ to describe his best friend, she wasn’t exactly part of the one per cent elite either.

Natasha had immigrated with her parents when her mother had accepted a dignitary job with the Russian embassy. The contract had lasted years; however, her parents had missed the motherland and opted to retire back in Moscow. It had been suggested that Natasha take over her mother’s position, but politics had never really been her thing. She was too prone to speaking her mind and not tolerating any bullshit.

Due to her parents’ time in Estia and perhaps a little bit of special treatment thanks to her relationship with the prince, she’d secured dual citizenship and could consider herself just as much Estian as Russian. Now, she ran press and PR for the Hôtel de France, one of — if not _the_ — most exclusive hotel in all of Estia. As far as jobs went, Bucky guessed it wasn’t too bad. She got to keep her own hours — unless there was some sort of publicity nightmare — and honestly, most of her work was done while they were out mingling. It had been while sipping cocktails with Jennifer Lawrence that Nat had locked the hotel in as _the_ location to film in Estia, and so far the hotel had been featured in three Bond films, an X-Man movie and a handful of disposable romances.

“I guess it’s business as usual,” Nat concluded. “Know thy enemy.”

Honestly, Bucky had been hoping for something more. He had no clue what or how, but it would have been great if Nat could just click her fingers and come up with the answer to all Bucky’s problems.

Starting from the beginning was so tiresome! Each guard was different — while still being boringly the same — and so it took work to find out what made them uncomfortable or what made them snap. Maybe this guy would hate loud music and protest to Bucky clicking at him, or perhaps he just wouldn’t care. Maybe, unlike others, he’d actually enjoy it if Bucky talked non-stop, or perhaps he’d get off on hearing some of Bucky’s more rumbustious stories. One of his previous guards had been highly religious, so all it took was a few ‘morning after’ stories and a staged threesome with Nat and their friend Clint to have the guard clutching his bible all the way back to church.

What if this guy wasn’t fazed by that sort of stuff?

“I just really thought I’d have more time,” Bucky sighed his thoughts out loud.

“I know.” It wasn’t exactly soothing, but Natasha was generally blunt as a tac. “Let’s do lunch and get started, yeah?”

“Lunch!” Bucky agreed. At least out with Natasha he could get some real food. Something greasy and good for the soul that would also suck up the remaining alcohol in his system.

“The Hill?” Natasha suggested.

“Nah,” Bucky shook his head while surveying his closet. “Let’s hit up the La Condamine.”

“Tourists,” Natasha half spat. That was true. While Portside was the number one night-time hotspot, and The Hill was known as an afternoon haven for those who’d partied too hard the night before, La Condamine was the tourist strip. It was the part of the sovereign-city that was a little more kitschy than most other districts and squares, and it catered to both of the only two Hostels in the whole country. It was there that hungover travellers could get American style burgers and fast food, buy postcards and silly fridge magnets, and where bad hats and bumbags seemed to be a standard part of all outfits.

Generally, Bucky avoided the place like the plague, especially during the day, but desperate times called for extreme measures.

“It’ll be a good testing spot,” Bucky reasoned. “See how easily distracted he is.”

There was the sound of more furious typing before Nat responded. “Fine. You owe me. Meet me in front of the fountain at one.”

“Wear something gaudy!” Bucky rushed out before Natasha disconnected the call. Honestly, having a job just seemed so time-consuming and annoying.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Bucky calculated how much time he had to kill. Certainly enough for a nice long hot shower; the sort where he could lean against the wall and steam all the aches and pains out of him. If he was going to try and slip his new ball and chain, then he needed to be physically functioning more than he currently was.

Calling through the door to his new resident statue, Bucky announced his plans as he weighed up two different shirt options. One was gaudy, but the other was even worse. They were the sorts of things that wannabe celebrities liked to wear while thinking that they were hot. Bucky would usually never be caught dead in something as visually jarring, but if his escape attempt stood any chance, he needed to be able to blend in.

“I’m going to lunch in La Condamine with a friend. At one.”

From the other side of the door came a muffled, “Yes, Your Highness. I’ll make sure the car is ready.” Bucky sighed at the guard’s prompt professionalism. It wasn’t like he wanted the guy to grunt and curse or anything, but there was a certain twang to Rogers’ accent that just sounded stubborn.

Opting for the horrendously striped Gucci shirt, Bucky made his way towards his bathing chambers, trying not to dwell on the panicked feeling that shaking this guard was going to be more challenging than usual.

* * *

Prince James was exactly what Steve had been expecting. From the cocky way he swaggered, to the constant grind of his jaw as he chewed gum, right the way down to how he used his hand to cover his eyes from the bright sun.

If it was possible to pick a ready-made rock star of a celebrity off a shop rack, then Prince Barnes would have been the top seller.

There was also no denying that the prince was attractive, and while that had been painfully noticeable from the moment Steve had caught wind of the job opening, it was even more blindingly apparent in person.

Steve did his best not to stare and went back over the details in his head. James was in his mid-twenties, but there was a worldly edge in his eyes that Steve didn’t often see even in men twice James’ age. The prince was every bit the fashionista that he was rumoured to be, and his admirable height and slender yet toned build indeed highlighted that. Given the way he was known to drink and eat, there had to be some sort of rigorous training involved though. James looked like he spent more time fencing and doing martial arts than pumping weights at the gym like some steroid junky.

Then again, some sources liked to say that he found all the exercise he needed in the arms of the rich and beautiful. That, Steve assumed, was going to be the biggest challenge in dealing with the young royal. Steve could deal with a drunk, and he could deal with someone who loved to party, but his contract specified the desire to have the prince being steered to a more respectable life with fewer scandals. That was where Steve was going to struggle. Especially with a client so set in their ways, and one so objectively handsome. It would be hard to keep the suitors at bay.

James had icy eyes; a mix of cold blue and stormy grey, kept himself mostly clean-shaven and had hair that was perfectly too long in the front, prompting him to sweep it back in a way that still let strands fall loose to cup his face. The original dossier Steve had been given pre-assignment had shown the prince supporting a series of messy buns to keep it off his face which were, maybe, a seasonal thing.

Steve was only human, and he was a flawed one at that. While he’d never considered his sexual preferences as an issue or even something to be ashamed of, the fact that he’d honestly caught himself staring a little too hard at photos of his latest charge certainly did border the problematic.

Tony Stark had been attractive; charismatic in that eccentric, stuck up sort of way. But Prince Barnes was something else. Cocky, self-assured and hypnotic, he commanded attention with little more than a flick of the eyes and an overconfident smirk. It was no wonder that the cameras and gossip columns loved him; he was undoubtedly going to be the fucking death of Steve.

So when Prince Barnes had come out of the palace and approached the car, Steve had found himself caught between staring and frowning at the vision the he painted.

Steve wasn’t sure what the James was wearing — it was honestly horrible — but it put him on edge. James was planning something. Even at breakfast when the young royal had looked green in the face and had the hangover sweats, he’d still been dressed fitting of both his station and his personal style.

Like any good employee, Steve had done his research. Typically people looked into the bank they were hired to be a teller for, or a coffee shop’s menu and TripAdvisor score before donning an apron. Things were a little bit different in Steve’s line of work, though. He’d turned to the papers first, and when little of importance had come up, he’d hit Google. That had been the moneymaker, so to speak, and Steve had found out all he needed to know of Estia’s prince, and then some, through a series of Just Jared posts, Instagram stories and broken-hearted messages on Twitter. And that wasn’t even taking the dumpster fire that was Tumblr into account.

That was, of course, just the superficial details of the man he was charged to protect, but judging by the online reports and tabloid gossip — Steve was ashamed to say that he now had a TMZ subscription, among others — it really did seem that was all there was to Prince James Barnes; partying and sordid love affairs. The latter had morphed over the years, changing from women to a mix to now mostly men, and while there was no clear cut type that could be pinned to the prince, Steve did see certain similarities between James’ conquest. He liked talented people, and strong men; not just physically, but also with influence and power.

The gossip blogs lapped it up, defining the young royal by the company he kept and the superstars he’d been linked with.

He was on the hunt for a sugar daddy, they said, so maybe Estia was in financial hardship. Or, worse still, maybe James’ father was threatening to cut him off from the royal coffers, hence why he targeted such wealthy suitors. 

Honestly, Steve didn’t buy that. There was always more to someone, and he’d seen the cunning intelligence in the Prince’s eyes, even if they were bloodshot and watery. He didn’t act like someone chasing a financially beneficial relationship, and even if he was about to be cut off, the prince was the type of person that could and would make it on their own.

More importantly, though, was the fact that none of the salacious rumours mattered to Steve. Five years with Tony Stark had certainly conditioned Steve to turn a blind eye while still keeping a lookout for his boss’ welfare. If Steve could deal with Stark’s antics, then a prince with a stereotypical spoiled façade and a thirst for attention was going to be a walk in the park.

He didn’t care what Prince James wanted to do in his free time — or who he wanted to do. Being a bodyguard was a no judgement zone. He just needed to make sure that the prince was a little more discreet in his trysts.

The prince went for the back of the car, as expected, and while Steve had been prepared to drive, he’d found that to be unnecessary. The prince had his own driver, apparently. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but Steve still found it interesting to note. It was, after all, one more person for the prince to slip away from, which, according to the briefing Minister Pierce had given Steve, happened far too often.

The driver looked like he’d seen better days and hadn’t slept in weeks, but he was otherwise in chipper spirits when greeting the young prince. A Frenchmen, from the sounds of the accent. Steve took it all in with measured calculation. The driver was clearly well known — Bucky greeted him by name; Jacques — and gave the man a pat on the shoulder as the door was held open for him. Still, that was no excuse for Steve to let his guard down, especially not on his first day. There was no telling how far someone with nefarious intent would go to get close to a target.

Steve double-checked the high points of the courtyard before easing himself into the front passenger seat. Usually, if not driving, he would be in the back with his charge. Somewhere close, so he could take control without the barrier of the seats standing between him and his mission. That had always been the way with Tony. But Stark — eccentric as he was — was a lot different to Estia’s prince. Over the years, he and Tony had moved from just guard and client to something like friends.

Plus, Tony had always been in a limo; left more space for Steve to be present but still removed from all the frankly unholy things that Stark had gotten up to.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, Steve assured himself all was well. Only, this time, the prince caught his gaze and lifted one defined eyebrow up in silent question.

He didn’t remain silent for very long.

“Tell me about yourself, Rogers.” James’ voice startled Steve out of his musing. Steve hadn’t really expected him to instigate a conversation, even one that was clearly meant as an interrogation.

“There isn’t much to tell, Your Highness,” Steve replied. He did his best to keep his tone flat and devoid of emotion, even while allowing himself another quick glance into the rearview mirror. He caught a glimpse of James’ face, and for a brief moment, their eyes locked.

Steve did as was right and looked away first. Still, there was something that lingered in the back of his mind; something deep in the prince’s gaze that had Steve’s internal warning bells screaming for attention.

The bodyguard had been warned when he was hired; the crown prince was charismatic and personable and had managed to convince all of his previous bodyguards to resign due to an egregious inability to keep track of him. Or, as if that wasn’t enough, the prince had tricked them into grievously inappropriate acts and situations and seen them not only fired but run out of the small country. 

Steve was not cut from the same cloth, and he did not intend to make the same mistakes as his predecessors.

Still, there was no denying that the young royal was charming. It was evident even in the way he draped himself across the backseat of the Cadillac, lounging and looking at Steve in the mirror like he wasn’t wearing the most hideous shirt known to man. Maybe Steve had imagined it, but he couldn’t shake the idea that James had a very _come hither_ look in his eyes.

It was a nice try; Steve had to give him that. But it wouldn’t work. The ex-soldier may not have been blind to the prince’s charms, but he sure could resist them. 

Clearing his throat a little to cover the hesitant pause, the bodyguard continued. “I served for ten years in the United States Green Berets. Most of my work there was classified, but-”

In the backseat, the prince waved a hand. Steve saw a flash of it in the mirror.

“No, no, no. I don’t want your resume,” the prince sighed dramatically. Steve watched him as his eyes rolled and his head turned to look out the window. Steve was almost glad to have the eye contact broken. “I can read that anytime I like. I want to know about you. How old are you? What kind of music do you like? Any brothers or sisters? I’m an only child, myself — you know, thanks to murder and all. But then again, I guess you already knew that. Files and documents and whatever other personal details Pierce slipped you.” Glancing uncertainly into the rearview mirror once more, Steve caught the prince’s dry, wry smirk. “Must have been a good read.”

Steve felt his breath catch in his throat. He’d been expecting everything and anything, from hostility to terribly veiled seduction attempts. But jokes about the tragic death of the queen and princess had not been part of Steve’s mental preparation. As much as he loathed to admit it, Steve had to chalk one up on the prince’s side for the sheer shock factor of his callous words.

“With all due respect, Your Highness,” Steve rationalized. It seemed like the driver beside him was either used to this or deaf to the insensitive remarks of his prince. Jacques didn’t even blink. “I think you shouldn’t make light of the serious threats against your family,” Steve mumbled; then, when the prince pouted, he replied grudgingly. “Thirty-six. Classical and jazz. Only child.”

While he may have answered the questions, it really was a little too late. Or, as Steve suspected, not at all part of the conversation; not really. The prince hadn’t asked him those things out of honest curiosity; it had all been a lead-in to the ulterior questioning, and to gauge how much Steve knew. And how much he would balk at confrontation.

“Rest assured, Rogers,” the prince’s tone had that same haute jolt as it did over breakfast. “I neither underestimate nor forget the threats made against my family.”

There was something in the icy, detached way Prince James spoke that had Steve instantly glancing into the mirror. Steve had heard plenty of threats during his time and been privy to many a spoiled tantrum and self-assured boast. Yet Prince James and his haunted, sleep-deprived eyes brought something different to the over-privileged tirade. Lounging in the back of the car, his jaw working over that gum and his attention now permanently fixed outside the window, he somehow managed to blend those façades together, creating a mix of dangerous intention and overblown competence.

The words were left hanging in the silence between them. There was little Steve could say in response, and he already knew that even trying to assure the prince that he was safe now, with Steve, would be cause for laughter.

Steve spent the rest of the ride watching the scenery go by, memorizing twists and turns, and trying not to be obviously on edge as they weaved their way down the mountainous stretch that joined the palace to the heart of the town.

He was starting to feel that this job was going to be a lot harder than he’d initially expected.

* * *

**Chapter Three Preview**

Prince James was… a handful. He was bratty and self-important, rude and impulsive and was clearly trying to get in under Steve’s skin. He was picking and scratching and trying to worm his way under Steve’s patient façade. It was the first damn day, and Steve could already feel himself arching up in response.

The prince had taken mere hours to do what Stark had needed months to accomplish.

Maybe Steve was getting too old for this. Too jaded and too stuck in his ways; too prone to irritation and annoyance. It was easier to believe that was the case than to entertain the alternative. Steve did not want to deal with the very real likelihood that Prince James was _that_ good at pushing buttons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember [Marcus/Parov Stelar](https://media.tourdata.at/display/pic800x/066f08a4860990e4e97b3a944336b698.jpg). While this is obviously going to endgame as Stucky, Marcus gets mentioned a lot. He was that first love of Bucky's life who got away and left some marks, so his name comes up a bit. I wanted to use a real person for the lols, but also didn’t want to use too many Marvel related actors in case I needed to throw in their Marvel characters. Besides, Parov Stelar is pretty hot. He’s like… the Michael Fassbender of music. 
> 
> Any modern Bucky I ever write is obsessed with Ryan Gosling. It's become somewhat of a trend. :) 
> 
> As always, you can [stalk me over on tumblr](https://minka-g.tumblr.com/), and, in the meantime, I do live off your comments and kudos, so please feel free to drop one if you can.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you all thought you were going to get out of this fic without a playlist! 
> 
> You were wrong. 😉 It’s just taken me ages to do it, especially since, like the rest of this fic, the playlist was just a shamble. Once I worked out that it was really two lists though, then it was easier. So I have my writing playlist, and then we have Bucky's Endless Party Mix, which is what I’m sharing with you today. 
> 
> [Bucky's Endless Party Mix](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLo4vU-E4i61LddAXYzAeNaV2yEkrw_Loc) – songs to get the night started, keep you dancing into the morning, and to greet the dawn light with. 
> 
> Slightly longer chapter this time, too. Honestly, my chapter breaks in this fic are all over the fucking place. 
> 
> Some other notes at the end of the chapter 😊

**Chapter Three**

_Oh, look what you made me do!_

La Condamine was every bit as crowded, colourful and chaotic as Bucky had been counting on. It was an assault to the senses, and the buzz of excited tourists and blend of music from the never-ending sea of restaurants weren’t all that pleasant for Bucky’s headache, but he could tolerate those cons. It would all be worth it and provide a good chance for him and Nat to put the new shadow through the wringer.

He met Natasha at the fountain in front of the State Art Museum. Clearly, she’d missed the instruction to dress gaudily; then again, Bucky supposed she had come directly from work.

Natasha always cut a stunning figure. She was tall for a girl and came across as clearly strong and competent. Not in an Amazonian sort of way, though, but in a way that made her look cracking in almost anything she wore, as well as intimidating. Her flame-red curls and sharp eyes always helped, and when she wore the sort of heels she preferred, she was almost as tall as Bucky.

Honestly, if they hadn’t grown up together — and if Bucky hadn’t realised that he generally preferred the sexual company of men — then Natasha would have been the perfect partner. Hell, Bucky was sure that even his father would have approved of their union, provided that they both settled down and laid off the booze.

“You weren’t kidding about the _gaudy_ ,” Natasha laughed as she leant in for a double cheek kiss.

“Gotta fit in,” Bucky shrugged, sniffing slightly as one of Nat’s curls tickled his nose.

Bucky’s outfit was, honestly, horrendous. As much as he enjoyed fashion, and liked having the ability to indulge in expensive brands, some things should just be burned. Like this top, for instance. It didn’t belong on him, or in his wardrobe; it belonged on a trash pile doused with gasoline. Better yet, it should have never been made and the money used to design and create it spent on more important things.

Still, it was all part of royal duties; sponsorship, brand influence and partnerships. At least Bucky hadn’t purchased this exact shirt, and while he _was_ wearing it, it was to take the piss; to blend in with the pretentious locals and the flocks of American Express Black Card trust fund babies soaking up the sun. 

That, in turn, doubled its usefulness. It was going to be a lot easier to escape his new watchdog if he didn’t stand out. With any luck, it might also keep the press off his heels.

It wasn’t easy getting around town without causing a media frenzy, and while Bucky didn’t mind so much at night, he still welcomed his anonymity, especially during the day. It was different when he was dressed to the nines and all-out seeking attention; then Bucky relished the idea of being recognised everywhere he went.

During the day, it was bad enough that he was out while the sun was still up, and when he was, he was generally craving unhealthy food and some retail therapy. Drunken giggles and staggers were cute in the papers, but pictures of him chowing down on greasy, cheat-day monstrosities of pizza and doughnuts and dumplings was something best left out of the public eye.

“Anyway,” Nat said slowly, the single word dropping the sort of hint that told Bucky he’d gotten lost in his own head. It reminded him that at least some form of introduction was in order. It would be rude if he didn’t, and better yet, he’d waste a perfectly good opportunity to try and get in under Rogers’ skin.

“Oh yeah,” Bucky said with a dismissive flurry of his hand. “Natasha, this is Statue number… I’ve honestly lost count. Statue; this is Natasha.”

“Steve Rogers,” the guard said, all polite and charming and with a small half-bow of his head that made Bucky scrunch his face up. Hell, Bucky was honestly surprised that Rogers didn’t go all out and try to kiss Nat’s hand, medieval knight style.

“Hey stud,” she added with a smirk and a wink that reminded Bucky that she was good people. It was hard to find someone on the same wavelength as he was, but thankfully that was where Natasha fit so perfectly. She was the best friend that a guy could ask for.

“I would hate to see what your version of ugly is,” Natasha said, bold as brass as she looked Rogers up and down. Bucky raised an eyebrow and rolled his eyes, pointedly not paying attention to the slight flush of pink that coloured the skin above the bodyguard’s perfectly manicured beard.

If the guy took offence at being ogled, he didn’t make it known, so Bucky shrugged a little, took Nat’s arm in his and proclaimed, “I’m starving. Where to?”

“Nothing too greasy,” Nat reasoned as they started to stroll. “Work seems to think the apocalypse is coming, so I have to go back later and put out whatever fires have sprung up in my absence. Can’t do that with an oil-coma.”

“What makes you think I’m gunning for an oil-coma?” Bucky pouted. 

Nat laughed out loud, a short, fast bark of amusement before patting at Bucky’s arm. “Because I know you. And,” she said, letting the word drag and the pause linger. “I read the papers this morning. Good night, huh?”

“Oh my god!” Bucky gushed. It was a good night. A little bit unexpected, and Bucky was certainly feeling worse for wear because of it, but it was certainly up there with his top exploits. “Have I got a story for you!”

It was easy to talk to Natasha, and he candidly spilled the beans about his early morning spent getting cosy on a public bench. If he raised his voice a little just to make sure his new shadow heard all the sordid details, then it was purely done to make the man balk and think twice about his new position and not for any other ulterior motive.

Bucky had to give it to Rogers. The guy was good at his job. He was an ever-present fixture, and yet he avoided overcrowding them. Over the years, Bucky had had all sorts of guards; ones that lingered back too far to be of any use should something happen — they were Bucky’s personal favourites, of course — and those that seemed to stick to him like glue. He’d even had one who’d insisted in putting themselves between Bucky and Nat, as if the Russian woman was about to knife him in the throat after years and years of ample opportunity.

But not Rogers. He kept a solid two paces behind them, and slightly to Bucky’s left. Nat was firmly attached to Bucky’s right arm, and if Bucky tried to think like a bodyguard, then he guessed that made sense. Natasha was an unknowing shield, and so Rogers kept an eye on the exposed side. He was close enough to reach out and grab Bucky if the occasion called for it, but not breathing down his throat. He wasn’t making a big deal with his presence, either. He walked, he watched, he acted like a man in a suit going for a lunchtime stroll, not some overprotective hound. Guards like that only served to bring more attention to those they were safeguarding.

It was annoying that the American was so good.

By the time they settled on a funky little Italian place for lunch, Bucky had Natasha in stitches and Rogers an interesting shade of beet red as Bucky gave a play by play recount of the night.

“So that’s how I ended up with my hand down his pants,” Bucky finished. “And the story looking to be the top runner for ‘Funniest Headline’ all year.” 

The maître d’ clearly recognised them but had the fortitude and intelligence not to cause a fuss — maybe Bucky had been here before; all places tended to blend into one — and seated them in a quiet corner overlooking the small on-site garden. Rogers was given the table next to theirs where he could sit and watch from a position that was, unfortunately, right between Bucky and the doorway.

Bucky assured himself that it was alright. It wasn’t like he was going to be making a mad running dash past the guy anyway. At least not in his current state, and certainly not before food.

It was rare that Bucky forewent a bottle of wine, but his body was in no state to deal with more alcohol, and Natasha did have to get back to work eventually. Bucky wasn’t entirely sure, but he figured that day drinking while not schmoozing clients was probably frowned upon for those with real jobs.

While Bucky gorged himself on garlic bread and authentic carbonara, Natasha made the pretence of being healthy with a salad, and neither of them commented on the fact that her fork frequently strayed into Bucky’s bowl. That was just the way they were.

It was also easy to forget about the new bodyguard, and Bucky found himself complaining about his father’s latest idea for getting him involved in royal duties. Natasha took it all in, her face a horrifying shade of pale and her eyes wide. Natasha understood; she always had, and while occasionally she’d pushed Bucky to flex his princely muscles in specific governing ways, she’d always sided with him and his choice not to be dragged into politics.

After all, the finer details of court life and dealing with clashing political views had always been his sister’s strong point and look where that had gotten her. Dead in a ditch.

That thought had Bucky clamming up, his back going rigid and his pulse racing. He could still remember. Remember it all—red and blue lights; the sounds; the blood. Rain against crumpled metal and steam rising. A horn blasting continuously.

His stomach churned dangerously, the unhealthy mix of pasta and bread and lingering alcohol turning into a toxic blend in his gut that seemed desperate to escape.

“Bucky?”

He felt a hand against his lips, fingers curling around his chin. It was alien at first, unknown, but slowly the callouses became clearer. Sensation returned, palpable feeling tactile and known. His own hand. He was covering his mouth and cradling his chin in his palm.

“You alright, Buck?”

It took a moment for Bucky to realise that Nat was talking. That it was her voice he could hear and her hand over the one he still had on the table. Thin but strong fingers stroked at the back of his hand, tracing lines and squeezing reassuringly as Bucky blinked himself back into the present.

“Yeah, I. I just,” Bucky sucked in a deep breath, tasting the lingering aroma of garlic on his tongue and fresh air. Bright sunlight. “I’m seedy as fuck,” he breathed out, even managing a soft chuckle at the admission of weakness. “And need to pee,” he added. He grabbed the side of the table as he stood to stop himself from swaying. “I’ll be right back.”

Bucky turned around only to blink in suspicious surprise when a bulky blonde man in a suit stood up a split second later. Thrown out of whack and totally off his game, Bucky’s brain didn’t fully click who the man was, at least not before Bucky’s hands had balled into defensive fists at his sides.

“Your Highness?”

That did it. The tone and the formal words; six-foot-something of muscle and a perfectly manicured beard. Bodyguard number unknown. Rogers, Steve. Hired by Pierce. Not to be trusted.

Cataloguing helped Bucky calm down and focus, and while it still took considerable effort to uncurl his fingers, the patronising smile he fixed in place came quickly and naturally.

“Down, boy,” he chastised. For the briefest moment, he saw Rogers’ jaw clench. It was a fleeting thing, a quick grind of back teeth followed by a sharp swallow, and it was gone and replaced with neutral politeness before Bucky could call Rogers out on it. But it had been there, and Bucky chalked it up as a small win and filed the offending words away for later.

Unfortunately, the facial tick had made Rogers stand taller and straighter – it shocked Bucky that such a thing was even possible – and resulted in the bodyguard stepping closer.

Bucky fixed him with a withering glare and crossed his arms over his chest in response. “Seriously?” he demanded, every bit the commanding royal that he was.

“It’s best if—”

Bucky cut the man off with a shake of his head. “I’m going to the bathroom,” he said, “and I don’t need someone to hold my hand or wipe my ass or braid my hair or whatever the hell you think is going to happen in there. So just… sit.”

Not waiting to see if Rogers blew a fuse at what Bucky knew was an insulting tone, Bucky headed for the bathroom. He needed to wash his face, calm himself down and take a moment to think without faces and voices and touches crowding his senses.

He could feel Rogers’ eyes lingering on him, watchful and sharp and Bucky felt a shiver race up his spine. It was haunting and unsettling. Eyes in the night that tracked and catalogued his pain. 

Thankfully the small unisex bathroom was empty when Bucky got there, and he flicked the lock into place with a grateful sigh. Moving to the washbasin, Bucky pointedly ignored his own reflection and instead turned on the cold water tap. He splashed his face and wiped a wet hand across the back of his neck, enjoying the soothing coolness and the way it helped to numb his pounding head.

It took a few minutes of dousing himself down and the foolhardy determination to look anywhere other than the mirror for Bucky to not only remember how to think but also to formulate a hasty plan.

Natasha would understand. She always did.

Bathroom windows weren’t exactly made to be climbed in and out of on a whim, so it wasn’t easy. Bucky liked to think of himself as tall, and he was in fantastic shape, especially given his lifestyle, but that wasn’t much help in trying to climb through a narrow window twenty inches from the ceiling. Years of fencing and polo had given the naturally slim young man a sturdy set of wiry muscle, and hauling himself up to the window was simple enough. Maintaining his grip on the frame as he pulled himself, inch by inch, out of it, was not. There were no hand or footholds on either side of the wall, yet while the surroundings let Bucky down, his determination pushed him forward.

He managed to twist himself around mid-shimmy, so he could avoid falling out face first, and after sitting on the window sill for a moment, Bucky gripped the top frame as tight as he could while pulling his legs out. It left him poised like a gymnast before he finally lowered himself down.

Still facing the building, he dropped lightly to the ground and brushed himself off, muscles a little shaky with adrenaline and strain. The window opened to the side of the building and the narrow alleyway between the two parallel main streets of La Condamine. He was reasonably sure no one had spotted him, and no one had run off screaming about his undignified display which was also a good sign.

Pleased with himself, Bucky turned, and the little self-satisfied tune he had begun humming died in his throat.

There, against the rear wall of the boutique across the way, arms crossed and features scowling, stood Rogers. Bucky blinked, uncertain if he was actually seeing clearly or if he was lost in a hangover nightmare.

“You’re going to have to do a lot better than that, Your Highness,” the American informed him crossly. 

Well, fuck.

Bucky huffed and focused on his annoyance. It helped him to ignore the way the other man’s gruff tone shivered goosebumps into his skin. That was certainly unexpected.

The bodyguard’s arms uncrossed and damn, it only took three of Rogers’ large steps to have the bodyguard right in Bucky’s space. One large hand closed around Bucky’s upper arm, not unkindly or rough, but in a way that _very politely_ suggested Bucky follow along as Rogers led them back towards the street.

Maybe Bucky was getting sick; that was the only excuse he could think of for the way those goosebumps intensified.

Once again, Bucky found himself completely speechless as Rogers escorted him back to the main avenue. At the mouth of the alleyway and looking chagrined at their mutual failure, Bucky spied Natasha. She offered a little self-deprecating wave as the two men walked around the building to re-join her in the bustling street.

“Sorry about that,” she muttered to Bucky when the bodyguard finally let him go and took a single reserved step back. “He’s like a bloodhound.”

“You’re telling me,” Bucky sighed. It was almost alarming how easily Rogers had read him and his intentions. Even Bucky hadn’t really gone to the bathroom expecting to climb out the window. It had been a spur of the moment, random insanity. “I’ll just have to try better next time.”

“Maybe next time you should tell me before skipping out on the bill,” Natasha laughed.

* * *

As the afternoon wore on, Steve did his best to smile and pretend to find things amusing.

It was like babysitting kids, which was really saying something after years of protecting Tony Stark. That man had no self-preservation streak and all the idiotic curiosity of a new-born kitten far too big for their boots. Tony had been the type to see danger, acknowledge it, and then still go up and poke it in the face just to see if it would bite.

Managing Stark’s security detail had been a nightmare and one of the most demanding challenges of Steve’s career.

Disturbingly enough, he was already getting the impression that Estia’s prince was going to give Tony a run for his money.

Prince James was… a handful. He was bratty and self-important, rude and impulsive and was clearly trying to get in under Steve’s skin. He was picking and scratching and trying to worm his way under Steve’s patient façade. It was the first damn day, and Steve could already feel himself arching up in response.

The prince had taken mere hours to do what Stark had needed months to accomplish.

Maybe Steve was getting too old for this. Too jaded and too stuck in his ways; too prone to irritation and annoyance. It was easier to believe that was the case than to entertain the alternative. Steve did not want to deal with the very real likelihood that Prince James was _that_ good at pushing buttons.

The prince would have been a handful enough on his own, but then, of course, there was Natasha. She had been part of the briefing, though only in mention by way of friendship. She was an interesting piece of work. At first, Steve had picked her for a rational person, perhaps with a little too much going on behind her green eyes. Now, he wasn’t so sure. She flirted and pouted, caused distractions and tried to trick Steve into mischievous misdirects. It left Steve with the feeling that she was as mentally stunted as the prince, and, like the royal, possibly had something to hide.

Apprehending the prince in the alleyway had clearly turned the afternoon into a challenge. While Steve had hoped that Prince James would choose to go home and sulk, the dynamic duo — or terrible duo, as Steve’s mind quickly supplied — had decided that shopping was in order and that, for Nat, work ‘could wait’. But it wasn’t just shopping. Steve could deal with shopping; he could deal with waiting while suits were tailored, or watching his charge sip champagne at midday while scrutinizing every type of cufflink ever made before not buying anything. He’d had plenty of practice with that.

For the prince and his friend, actual shopping was an afterthought, whereas moving through a rehearsed repertoire of tricks and diversion attempts seemed far more critical. They probably even dusted off some manoeuvres that they’d never tried before.

The prince dashed here and there or dawdled behind like a perturbed child. The two of them knocked things over, changed directions mid-step and asked for favours from passers-by’s. Fitting rooms were just another part of the game; a chance to disappear out of sight and attempt to pull the wool over Steve’s eyes. The prince even tried to pull a ‘this man is following me’ ploy, only for it to backfire when the tourist in question didn’t speak English, French or Italian. Steve had been hard-pressed not to laugh at that. After all, the quicker the prince wore himself out, the sooner Steve could stop tracking him so intently and being paranoid about hidden weapons in the fanny packs of American tourists.

Outwardly, Steve remained unmoved and undistracted. While the young royal’s antics both amused and horrified him, he didn’t let it show and certainly didn’t voice his issues out loud.

It was all rather comical, in a way, and Steve did seriously have to question the type of guards who’d previously occupied his job. If these sorts of antics had been effective, then he balked at the idea of what actual protection the prince had been under. It was no wonder that the Minister for Defence had personally reached out, and even less of a marvel that the King himself had been involved in Steve’s employment.

He had, of course, been briefed on the tragic end the queen and princess had met, as well as the conspiracy theories that surrounded the accident. A terrible car crash that had ended in flames, the queen dying instantly, while the princess, Becca, hadn’t made it to the hospital.

Their deaths had made worldwide news, sparking an in-depth debate on the conduct of paparazzi and the rabid, voyeuristic consumerism that fuelled the obsession for photos of the rich and famous. After all, the crash was blamed on the reckless driving of a magazine photographer.

Others, of course, claimed that there was a lot more to the car accident than the papers reported. They spoke of assassination plots and a ring of smugglers that held a deep hatred for the Royal Family of Estia. Masked vigilantes and gunfire, and speculation of bullet holes in the car hidden by the heat of the subsequent explosion.

Steve didn’t know how it happened and, while it might sound callous, he didn’t care. It was a tragedy, but it was in the past. The present called for adequate protection on the last in the royal line, and that was what Steve was here for. Uncovering the truth of the past was not part of the job description.

As the hours ticked by, Steve lost track of how many escape attempts he’d throttled, until, finally, the prince threw his hands up in disgust in the middle of a shop and loudly proclaimed that he was ready to go home.

Child. Perturbed child.

Steve was more than fine with this turn of events, though, and he obligingly dialled the driver to arrange extraction. Pick-up, Steve reminded himself. Civilians used the term pick-up, especially when there was no danger involved.

The prince abandoned his collection of shopping bags in the middle of the floor, his arm around Nat as he thanked her for coming while heading for the door. Steve followed behind, pointedly ignoring the way the sales assistant cleared his throat and motioned for Steve to get the bags. If the prince’s other guards had played bellboy as well, then there was no wonder that they could never keep tabs on their charge.

Thankfully, Steve had had plenty of practice with this sort of social disregard while dealing with Stark.

“Have them delivered,” Steve said, his tone leaving no room for question or argument.

Through some mercy, Steve managed to get the prince back into the car with little to no fuss. Prince James had obviously decided that he was too tired for any more antics; Steve could see the rings under the prince’s eyes had turned darker, and each time the prince blinked the action became slower and more sluggish. His ability to stifle his yawns was waning as well.

Not that Steve was watching them that intently, of course.

* * *

Bucky often considered himself lucky. Sure, he was a prince in one of the last surviving royal families in the world, and yes, Estia happened to be a beautiful sovereign-city offering almost everything one could ask for, but there was a lot more to life — and luck — than just that. A great many moments and aspects of the universe had had to line up to create Bucky’s life.

He was attractive — it wasn’t a conceited thing to think if it was honestly true — and thankfully in a natural way. Working out was great, and stylists could do wonders with all types of people these days, but nothing beat honest to god genetic good looks. Bucky was also intelligent. Maybe not in the way his father liked to think, but he was smart in his own way. Street smart, he liked to think. He was socially adept, had an entertaining wit and was a natural charmer.

All in all, Bucky lived a charmed life. Which was why it was always such a shock when times like these rolled around.

There weren’t many days of his life that Bucky considered to be complete disasters. Of course, a few pointed ones came to mind, and there were a few painful days that he didn’t care to think about right now. Generally speaking, though, things tended to go his way, and life was all the better for it.

Today, however, was just bad.

Beyond bad.

It had been a rocky start from the get-go, and really, Bucky should have known that it was only going to get worse. All that sunshine and happy Jarvis was unnatural, as was the idea of mornings in general. The new bodyguard was the final nail in the coffin that Bucky was starting to pray for.

While it had been good to see Nat and have someone to vent his problems at, the thrill of the outing was horribly marred by the fact that Bucky was currently in his town car being driven home with his new bodyguard looking proud of himself in the front seat. Or at least Bucky assumed Rogers was looking proud of himself. Bucky hadn’t bothered to look forward in a while, but Rogers did seem like the type to hold a smug expression for an extended period of time.

The ride home was quieter than the one into town. Bucky was out of questions for the man anyway. There wasn’t anything else to ask, at least not that Bucky cared about. If Rogers had been a stranger sitting in a bar with a drink and a shirt too tight stretched across his chest, then Bucky would have spent all the time in the world trying to get to know him. He would have turned the charm up to eleven and done everything in his power to make Rogers feel like the only person in the room. Enough time, at least, to get Rogers into Bucky’s bed and then after that there was little time or point in talking.

But life was cruel, and the world was harsh, and instead of being some sexy fling that Bucky could enjoy — someone who looked like Rogers certainly deserved a call back for round two, provided he wasn’t an early finisher — he was an aggravating shadow with a giant stick up his ass.

Only Bucky could be so unlucky!

The car had hardly pulled to a stop by the time Bucky was up and out of the door, not waiting for someone to open it for him. He was across the inner courtyard of the palace before Jacques had even scrambled out of the driver’s seat.

Bucky didn’t really know what he needed, but it was _something_. He wanted to be away from people and to have some solitude where he could hear himself think. The comfort of his bed and the air-conditioning cranked down to eighteen degrees and another round of painkillers to chase the lingering thumping from his head. He wanted to pace back and forth and push his hands in his hair and grit his teeth as he tried to work out what to do about the curveball that had been thrown at him.

He took the palace stairs two at a time, his desire for solitude outweighing the funky feeling the physical exertion stirred in his belly.

It wasn’t until he was inside, and half-way through the twists and turns of the interconnecting formal foyers and then ducking under the red rope segregating the private part of the palace from the tourists' side that he even realised something was off.

Footsteps.

Rogers followed along behind him at a respectful distance, the number of steps between them carefully calibrated to leave room for optimal response time.

Bucky tried to give the guy the benefit of the doubt. After all, the bodyguard had to leave the courtyard himself, and there weren’t all that many other ways to walk. So he didn’t freak out when the man kept a steady pace behind him, even if the disturbing level of professionalism did irritate him.

Given how disastrous his attempts at shaking the guy had been, it all equalled to the very thing that Bucky feared the most. Heightened training and military precision; the exact opposite of what Bucky wanted in a bodyguard. He wanted dumb and docile; someone to look the part and follow orders and then be too scared to report back to his father. Someone to lose their sense of direction after too many turns and someone more content to leech off the royal treasury than actually work for their salary.

Bucky did not get that vibe off this new one, and that sinking feeling only heightened when Bucky turned down the hall towards his chambers. The footsteps continued to follow him.

Bucky breathed in deep, took two more steps then turned around and shot the man a withering glare. That, in Bucky’s opinion, should have been enough. It was the Royal ‘ _go the fuck away_ ’ look. A command without words; internationally known and recognised, and something that Bucky excelled at. Surely Rogers would understand.

Rogers, however, stared right back. It caught Bucky by surprise. He wasn’t used to that level of audacity in the palace, let alone from one of his personal guards. They usually dropped their eyes and did their best to look bashful. 

“The guard quarters are that way,” Bucky finally said, pointing back down the hall and to the regal, sweeping staircase. “I’d offer to draw you a map of the place, but,” he shrugged dismissively, silently saying ‘but I just don’t want to help’ before turning back around.

“I know where they are,” Rogers said, his tone annoyingly calm and collected.

“Well,” Bucky let the word hang in the space between them as he did his best to stare the American down. Rogers still didn’t look away, which was infuriating, to say the least.

Deciding to be the bigger man — because Bucky was by no means backing down — he sighed and offered Rogers a thin-lipped, unimpressed grin before turning away. He waved his hand dismissively over his shoulder while continuing to his chambers. “I’ll come and get you if I need you.”

That should have been it. That should have ended it. Rogers should have played the part of the well-trained lapdog and gone off to play dice and share mortifying stories with the rest of the palace guards.

But it wasn’t. Rogers followed instead; the sound of his footsteps laden with stubborn intent as he escorted Bucky to the door of his private quarters.

“What are you doing?” Bucky finally demanded.

“I’ll check your rooms to make sure they’re secure,” Rogers told him. There wasn’t any mistaking it for a request, and Bucky found himself being physically shooed to the side and out of the way. He huffed his indignity and crossed his arms over his chest as Rogers opened the door. Honestly! What the hell did the guy think was going to happen? Assassins in the curtains?

Bucky might have used the opportunity to bolt — he was fast on his feet — but when the guard opened the door, the scene he revealed made Bucky’s jaw drop. There, in his rooms, was not an assassin, but something possibly worse and far more confusing. A gaggle of servants moved back and forth, arms laden with boxes that Bucky recognised as some of his personal storage. And there was a bed. Right there, in the middle of the foyer. Bucky watched in open-mouthed horror as said bed was picked up and shuffled across the floor to disappear into the old butlers’ quarters.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded, pushing past the guard with all thoughts of escape well and truly forgotten. Rogers cleared his throat disapprovingly, and Bucky saw an arm reach for him momentarily, as if to pull him back. 

“Your Highness,” one of the valets bowed slightly while scurrying away and out of the door.

“That doesn’t answer my question!” Bucky called after him. Bucky was generally polite with the staff of the palace. They were there to do a job, and for the most part, they all did it very well. He was pretty sure they loved him — especially the kitchen staff — and he could count the times he’d been short with them during his life on one hand. But this? This was something else entirely.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky saw Rogers looking things over, watching the comings and goings of the servants before moving further into the room. He prowled, his eyes tracing the bustle of movement and his shoulders squared. The fool really was doing a thorough perimeter check.

“Your Highness.” It was Jarvis who spoke, distracting Bucky from further questioning the arms and legs of whatever vile organisation this was.

Just this morning Bucky had considered how he’d always liked the ageing man, but he had the feeling that sentiment was about to change. “His Majesty has instructed for the old butler quarters of your chambers to be made ready for your guard.”

Bucky blinked and stared at the old man like he’d finally lost the plot. “What?” Eloquent, but it summed up his dumbfounded stupor.

“Your father thought it best for your safety if your new guard was posted within your rooms.”

Bucky heard the words; he really did. And he understood them, which was the problem. They were moving the bodyguard into the old bedroom next to Bucky’s own. Moving him into Bucky’s apartment, where they’d share the same sitting area and main entrance and washrooms, and the balcony that Bucky often used as a secret way in and out of the palace after a night of debauchery.

All colour drained from Bucky’s face and for the first time in his entire life, he felt like he was about to swoon like some overwhelmed princess. Not out of happiness; that was damn certain. Out of uninhibited shock flooding his already exhausted system. This could not be happening. What about his privacy? What if Rogers was a secret pervert?! Surely Bucky’s father didn’t want his son’s virtue to be put in peril.

That thought disappeared as quickly as it had come. Virtue and chastity weren’t exactly Bucky’s forte, so he was going to have to find a better point to argue.

“All clear, Your Highness,” Rogers said as he returned to Bucky’s side. He stood there, straight as a board and hovering at Bucky’s left elbow. It reminded Bucky of a loyal dog.

“Of course they’re fucking clear.” The words came out more like a sigh than a snap. He’d honestly roll over and die if anyone managed to break into the palace and, once there, decided that his rooms were the ones to haunt. There were bigger fish to kill in this place than him. No one cared about the ditzy party prince, not when the King or even the Ministers were in residence.

Clutching at straws, Bucky decided to try a new tactic.

As the last of the house staff hurried out the room and pulled the doors closed behind them, Bucky turned his attention to the guard standing in the middle of what used to be Bucky’s private sanctum. The door to the old butler quarters was open, showing a modest room with a twin bed, a desk and chair and an old armoire. Spartan and sparse, it was, in Bucky’s opinion, little more than a shoebox. That’s why he’d used it for storage all these years.

“You — I don’t even remember your name,” that was a lie, but Bucky was fantastic at spinning the truth. He motioned to the small room with a look of disgust. “You can’t be happy with this, right?” He pried. “I mean. The other guards get their own quarters. You should too! All other guards are entitled to downtime and shifts, and you’re not going to get that here. Like this.” As far as last-ditch efforts went, Bucky was sure it was pretty convincing. Install some jealousy; after all, anyone willing to be Bucky’s bodyguard had to have some goal in mind, and that usually came by way of a fat pay cheque and the perks of the high life that Bucky was so fond of. It certainly wasn’t the sort of job anyone did for fun, or for personal gratification.

“If you talk to Father, then I’m sure he’ll work out something more appropriate for you.”

“The room suits me fine,” Rogers said. The asshole flashed him what could only be described as a shit-eating grin before his expression simmered back to blank indifference.

Bucky frowned.

“But you’ll need space,” he pushed. “Somewhere to relax and do… whatever it is that you do.”

“My job is to keep you safe,” Rogers deadpanned.

“Well, I’ll need space!” Bucky countered.

“I’ll stay out of your way as much as possible.”

Bucky felt his eye twitch. The asshole seemed to have an answer for everything, and it was more than just infuriating. He could feel his ire rising as his brain struggled to find the point that would send Rogers running.

“I like bringing people home,” Bucky pushed. He crossed his arms over his chest again and fixed his best petulant pout onto his face. “Frequently.”

A slight narrowing of the eyes; that was all the response Rogers gave before he replied. “I’ll be as invisible as possible.”

“I’m a screamer.” This was rock bottom, Bucky was sure of it.

It did, however, get Rogers to blink and fidget ever so slightly. Not as much as Bucky would have liked, but at least it was something.

“Once I know you’re not being harmed, that won’t be a problem.”

Bucky huffed, his hands shooting into the air with his exasperation as his foot stomped ever so slightly. Rogers was impossible. How could someone be so damn impassive and goddamn married to their job?

“Fine,” Bucky all but spat. “Make yourself at home; just don’t touch my stuff!” He was well aware of how childish that made him sound, but he honestly couldn’t care any less right now. This new arrangement was a severe blight on his way of life and future plans. Clearly, his father hadn’t been joking about using the guard to keep Bucky under control.

With little other option and Rogers standing there ever so eagerly, Bucky gave into his childish impulses and stormed off. He crossed the foyer, into the sitting room and then slammed the door of his private bedchambers as loudly as he could.

Tossing himself dramatically down on his bed, Bucky stared at the ceiling and contemplated his next move. It was day one and Bucky was already beside himself with defeat, and clearly, it was going to take a lot more to get rid of Rogers than most. The bodyguard was doggedly, irritatingly determined, especially with his father’s meddling interference spurring him on. Bucky wondered how much Rogers was being paid, and if that would be a point he could exploit.

Only one thing was for certain; one way or another, this had to stop.

* * *

**Chapter Four Preview**

“Maybe Wakanda has more criminals to worry about than just Killmonger.”

Ever the fence-sitter, Bucky had to give it to Pierce to say something so audacious. It brought the room to a sudden and silent halt, and Bucky could barely hide his glee at the awkward tension.

“Perhaps that is so,” T’Challa conceded. “And perhaps Estia has weaker borders than her Ministers would care to admit.”

Bucky wondered if UberEats would deliver into the middle of a royal meeting, because if there had been a way to get popcorn and a glass of wine in here, then Bucky would have taken it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minka Life Update.
> 
> So, I sort of alluded to it here and there, but I’ve had a huge life change happening atm. I’m currently writing his from a hotel room on the opposite side of the country to home. Why? Because I finally found a job, but needed to relocate for it. 
> 
> There’s a lot to it and, for the most part, I’m not actually excited about this move. Money is money, though. 
> 
> The reason I’m saying this is because it will inevitably throw a spanner into the creative works. I also know that there is no Wi-Fi in the four-street tiny town that I’m going to. I will have phone coverage that I can hotspot, but I don’t know if there will be signal in my room. Even then, it’s sketchy at best and **super expensive** (seriously, fuck Australia). I’m sure I’ll be able to find a spot of reception to do weekly posting, but I probably won’t be lurking around online much for—oh, the next year or so. *horror face* Add to that the whole chaos of new job and new people and it all just being mentally and emotionally (and physically, because the hours are INSANE) taxing, I just don’t know how frequently I’ll get time to write, or how well I’ll focus. 
> 
> I don’t know. Maybe it won’t be as bad as I’m making it out to be, but I used to work two and a bit hours down the road from this place, and that drove me to all sorts of problematic mental places. So, I’d rather prepare for the worst. 
> 
> On that note. This fic. We still have a lot of chapters to go until I catch myself up, so posting will continue as per usual. The day may change depending on rosters etc, and I might (just might) skip next week while I settle in. But otherwise, I’ll keep it going as structured as usual. 
> 
> As always, I really appreciate your comments and thoughts, and all those wonderful theories on what is coming for this fic. Please keep them coming so I have something to smile secretively to myself about over the coming days.


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes from the Bedroom Floor: 
> 
> As if my last update about life wasn’t bleh enough… I’m now in isolation again. There was 1 – ONE! – new covid case in the state I moved from (tested on the 2nd, and results came back positive on the 6th) and so now, because of that, I’ve had to go into 14 days isolation again. In my staff accommodation room. The aircon hardly works against the 42+ degree heat, I only get reception when I leave my phone on the toilet (or, as I’ve just discovered, when I put it on the floor under my desk because I lie on the floor when it gets really hot; hot air rises and all that) and I’ve been living off ham and cheese sandwiches for days. 
> 
> Life fucking sucks, and I’m so close to being done with everything. 
> 
> Anyway, slightly longer chapter this time, and we're starting to paw at the main driving plotline of the story (finally).

**Chapter Four**

**Better luck next time…**

There weren’t many times that Bucky didn’t enjoy having all eyes on him. Most days he strove for that sort of attention and fed off it. Now was slightly different though, and instead of devoted adoration and satisfying envy, Bucky felt the weight of critical judgement and humourless disbelief.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. He wasn’t sorry, but it seemed like the right thing to say given that the council was clearly expecting him to say _something_. “What was the question.”

It sparked a murmur through the room and, in the chair to Bucky’s left, the King shifted ever so slightly in a move that barely cloaked his disappointment. Bucky was used to that, and he took it on the cheek. There was a reason he’d spent so long avoiding these sorts of meetings, and why he’d vehemently protested the need of his presence right up until the moment he’d followed his father through the door.

This wasn’t Bucky’s world, and he wasn’t suited to it. Everyone but his father agreed on that, which no doubt made reality harder for George to bear. When Bucky spared the idea a second thought, he did feel for the old man. It must have been a great disappointment ending up with a court-deaf son, especially after Becca had been so proficient and skilled at the more delicate intricacies from such a young age.

She would have made a fantastic Queen when the time came for it, and Bucky had always had every intention of abdicating his claim to the throne in favour of her.

Thus was life, though, and clearly the fates — which Bucky, of course, didn’t believe in — had other things in mind. Honestly, it was a wonder that people were still shocked by Bucky’s dependency on alcohol to get through the day.

Sucking in a deep breath, Bucky did what _he_ was best at. He offered his best, dazzling smile and awaited an answer.

“The question was, ‘ _What do you think?_ ’” There was no missing the passive-aggressive, clipped tones to the Minister’s voice. Bucky’s smile faltered, and his head tipped to the side.

If Bucky was honest, then there were a lot of things he hated in life. Wannabe Influencers came to mind, as did people who drank decaf coffee and those who walked too slow when crossing a road. They were irritating as fuck. He also reserved a special, seething hatred for so-called ‘superfans’ and stans and the idea that every idiot with a social media handle felt it their duty to pass comment on the lives of people they didn’t know. Sunny days when the forecast clearly said to expect rain, gaudy fashion worn unironically and the fact that Ryan Gosling was straight were just some of the issues to get under Bucky’s skin. Early mornings, boring nights and wasted sunsets also tended to make Bucky feel like he was about to blow a fuse.

However, there was nothing or no one that Bucky hated more than Estia’s Minister for Defence, Alexander Pierce.

Where the sleazy scumbag had slithered in from was a mystery to Bucky. Just like Jarvis, Pierce had been there for as long as Bucky could remember, a permanent fixture in the royal court and an ever-present, poisonous thorn in Bucky’s side.

Any time Bucky thought back over his life, the Minister was always there. Pierce was in photos from Bucky’s sixth birthday. He was a dark smudge on the happy day that had been Becca’s debutante ball, and Pierce had been there, hand on Bucky’s shoulder as they’d watched his mother and sister be lowered into the earth. Bucky even remembered Pierce there _that_ night, his face washed in red and blue and shadowed by a dark umbrella.

It wasn’t just Bucky’s personal issues with the man that rubbed him the wrong way. Pierce talked big and promised the world when it came to fixing problems and mending relationships with the neighbouring countries, but honestly, Bucky couldn’t see any evidence of change. Granted, the Prince didn’t spend much of his time reading anything other than the Entertainment categories of papers and online news sites, but really, the fact that the city worshipped a mysterious person in an animal mask highlighted Pierce’s incompetence.

Actually, that was another thing Bucky hated. Just how much the papers and people loved the masked vigilante. Not only was The Fox’s presence a testimony to the ineptitude of Estia’s law enforcement, but adoration for the glorified criminal didn’t just come from Estia’s citizens. The midnight activities of the vigilante were famous far and wide. The Fox was little more than an attention seeker with some kung-fu skills, and the quicker they all stopped praising him, the better life would be. Hell, Bucky had even seen cheap Halloween costumes made out of spandex and polyester for sale on Amazon. He was pretty sure it was just a repurposed Catwoman costume, but that didn’t change the fact that the Fox was popular enough to have a Chinese knock-off empire clogging up Google search results.

So yeah, Bucky hated that too.

Fully aware that the court was expecting some form of an answer, Bucky stalled long enough to take a sip of water and try to calm his nerves. It was preposterous that Piece could get under his skin so quickly, but Bucky’s reaction to the older man was often jarring and mentally violent. A few direct words from the Minister had the power to short circuit Bucky’s brain and bring any chance of retaliation to a shattering halt.

It was Estia’s royal guest who spoke up first, cutting Bucky off from saying something scathing or, worse still, borderline stupid. Thankfully, it also prevented Pierce from having another dig, at least for the time being.

“Perhaps it is different in Estia,” T’Challa, son of King T’Chaka, and Prince of the African country Wakanda said. He spoke slowly and deliberately, each word pointedly chosen for maximum effect. It was a lot different from the reckless rambling that Bucky was more accustomed to. T’Challa had probably never said a silly thing in his life; never put his foot in his mouth and blushed his way through a blunder. If Bucky was honest, he sort of hated the other Prince for that, further lengthening the list of things Bucky detested.

“But where I am from,” the foreign royal continued, “it is not the role of the Prince to coordinate the detention of felons.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow as he placed his water glass down. T’Challa had thrown him a bone; a free pass for his blunder and honestly, Bucky wasn’t too sure how that made him feel. While it did prevent any further needling from Pierce, Bucky also wasn’t some child that needed to be bailed out of sticky confrontations. 

“In Estia,” Pierce countered, “we seek the wisdom of our Royal Council on all things.”

Clashing with Pierce was such a common occurrence for Bucky, that it was actually strange to see someone else toeing that line. T’Challa was every bit the impressive, polite man that the papers made him out to be, but there was a hardness in his jaw and cold indifference in his eyes that Bucky had spotted right away.

He was either the sort of person that Bucky never wanted to argue with or precisely the sort of person that would be fun to rile up.

“N’Jadaka is no common thief,” T’Challa carried on. He reminded Bucky of any one of the many tutors that he’d been so adept at ignoring in his youth. “And if he truly is at your borders, then it will take far more than the Royal Council to capture him — no offence, Your Majesty,” T’Challa added with a deep bow in the King’s direction. Bucky’s father waved him on.

“It is not a boast to say that Wakanda’s armed forces are stronger than Estia’s, and we have the added advantage of knowing how N’Jadaka operates. Yet he _still_ managed to give us the slip.”

While it was amusing to watch Pierce struggle with how to reply, Bucky could feel his attention span wavering. While the idea of international smuggling and espionage sounded appealing, it was purely in an action movie sort of way. James Bond and anything with Tom Cruise and that other guy who wasn’t James Bond. Killed a guy with a pen — boring movie. Bucky couldn’t remember the name, but there was one thing that these council meetings had taught him; real life was never as exciting as the movies. There’d be no hot undercover agent saving a damsel in distress, no epic speed boat chases across the Mediterranean and no deep-running conspiracies that led all the way to the top.

Worse still, if there were, then it would all involve the damn Fox and would become just another spoke in the propaganda wheel. 

“I have no doubt that Vulpes Nocte will sort the problem out before any decision is made.” Bucky shrugged nonchalantly, his eyes locked on Pierce as he gave his flippant opinion. The Fox was one of the few things that he and the Minister agreed on, even if it was for different reasons. Bucky’s feelings were caught up in the insulting way that the Fox could sell more magazines than his own face did, while Pierce thought the vigilante unruly and to be nothing more than a common criminal.

“The Fox needs to keep its snout—”

“I’ve heard of this Fox,” T’Challa mused. Bucky was hard-pressed to stifle a grin. “Even in Wakanda.” While it was rude to interrupt the Minister of Defence, there was something about the tone in T’Challa’s voice, and the way the Wakandan Prince leant forward ever so slightly that took the sting out of the offence. Innocent, but Bucky pinned it for what it was; deliberate and a diplomatic way to sway the conversation.

Maybe his father should think about trying to adopt T’Challa so he could rule Estia.

“They say he uses claws of vibranium.” Diplomatic as it may be, there was a hint of suspicion in T’Challa’s voice. While comings and goings and underhanded practices of the Fox were not Bucky’s concern, it was patriotism that sparked the irritation he felt at the statement. “I’d very much like to know where he got them from.”

“They also say _he_ is a _she_ , so I wouldn’t believe every story the papers print,” Bucky replied tartly. He may not have liked the damn wall-hugging vigilante, but he wasn’t going to sit by and let some dusty, forgotten country imply that Estia had anything to do with smuggled goods and stolen metals.

“Whoever they are, vibranium isn’t something my people freely give out.”

“Maybe Wakanda has more criminals to worry about than just Killmonger.”

Ever the fence-sitter, Bucky had to give it to Pierce to say something so audacious. It brought the room to a sudden and silent halt, and Bucky could barely hide his glee at the awkward tension.

“Perhaps that is so,” T’Challa conceded. “And perhaps Estia has weaker borders than her Ministers would care to admit.”

Bucky looked from T’Challa to Pierce and back again. The Wakandan Prince was the picture-perfect example of grace and humble humility, sitting there as if he hadn’t just politely insulted the entire room. Pierce, on the other hand, had his jaw clenched so tight that it looked like he’d been physically hit, and his cheeks were turning red in a way that made Bucky question if he was going to start smoking from the ears.

Bucky also wondered if UberEats would deliver into the middle of a royal meeting, because if there had been a way to get popcorn and a glass of wine in here, then Bucky would have taken it.

“I think we should return to the issue at hand,” George Barnes intervened. “Prince T’Challa, if you’d be so kind as to fill us in on your previous encounter with this… Killmonger. That would be greatly appreciated.”

T’Challa nodded deeply, his right hand pressed to his heart as he stood. It appeared that T’Challa was about to launch into a no doubt dull account of everything this criminal Bucky had never heard of had done. Bucky balked. This was getting boring, and he’d been given an excellent way out that he'd yet to take advantage of.

“As Prince T’Challa said,” Bucky gushed, getting in before T’Challa started his spiel. “Arresting this Killmonger is far beyond my expertise and sounds quite dangerous.” He stood and offered his father the sort of bow that left no room to question his motives. It was deep and honourable and without repute, but coming from him, it was an underhanded way of proving a point. He was leaving, and he could go silently and with respect, or he could kick up the sort of tantrum that the royal court hadn’t witnessed since Bucky was going through puberty and his emo phase.

Bucky wasn’t blind to the flash of disappointment that he saw in his father’s eyes, but he was, however, used to it. The sting wasn’t so intense after years and years of being on the receiving end of said look.

“I’ll leave it in your _capable_ hands,” Bucky informed Pierce, the malice practically dripping from his lips.

With that, he pushed his seat in and descended the five steps that separated him and his father from the rest of the council hall. Bucky offered a nod towards T’Challa and spared Pierce little more than a cold glance before heading for the doors. The guard posted on the inside looked about as stunned and confused as a man caught between a rock and a hard place. On the one hand, he should be rushing to open the door for the Crown Prince of Estia. On the other, his King was clearly displeased.

Bucky rolled his eyes and moved to open it himself. Closing his hand around the ornate handle, he pulled the door open abruptly and almost ploughed right into a sturdy body.

Rogers. His bodyguard. The other infuriating thorn in his side.

Bucky shooed the shocked man back with a wave of his hand, unbelievably thankful that he hadn’t altogether collided with the stocky man. That really would have ruined the brilliance of his icy exit. 

Once able to move freely, and with the door closed tightly behind him, Bucky sent Rogers a puzzled glare.

“Hear anything interesting?” There was more accusation over the eavesdropping than actual interest in the question.

“No, Your Highness.” At least Rogers had the self-preservation to look ashamed of himself.

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest and regarded the American for a moment. He could cause a lot of drama over something like this. Have Rogers stripped of his work rights and run out of the country. Matters of the state weren’t meant to be heard by the masses, especially not foreign nationals who, in Bucky’s opinion, just happened to show up right as Estia started really going to hell.

Unfortunately for Bucky, that would involve going back into that room, and if there was one thing that he found more annoying than Rogers, it was the stuffy back and forth of politics. And Pierce.

“If you’re that interested in boring matters of state,” Bucky huffed, “next time you can go in there and pretend to be me.” He looked Rogers over once, then took a pointed second glance, enjoying the way the guard blushed at being caught out.

With nothing more to say, Bucky flicked his hand, indicating that Rogers needed to move off to the side of the hall. The guard really did have a genuine issue with spatial awareness, and clearly couldn’t understand when he was blocking Bucky’s way with his sizable shoulders.

“I’m going for a nap,” Bucky stated. He didn’t bother even trying to tell Rogers to run along and do something useful. The guard fell straight into step, two paces behind Bucky and just to his left, and trailed him through the palace.

Bucky rolled his eyes slightly but kept quiet. He was too tired for this, and honestly, if Rogers wanted to follow him right to his bedroom door and make sure no one jumped out of the curtains to kill them, then… whatever. Fine. Bucky wasn’t in the mood to argue.

* * *

It was the second time that Bucky had been in La Condamine in a week, and honestly, he had to be careful. The last thing he needed was The Estia Scoop naming it as his new favourite haunt just to see his reputation to take a hit.

Still, it was the only place that Bucky could think of that ticked all the boxes for the afternoon.

His father had suggested — demanded, really, but in a polite way — that Bucky found a wholesome way of entertaining the visiting Wakandan royal; Bucky had found his options severely limited.

Bucky could do wholesome; he honestly could, but not with someone so damn _boring_. T'Challa was about as dull as they came. He carried himself with all the charm of a paper doll with a stick up its ass and clearly spent more time pouring over books and boring reports than learning social interaction.

Nat was busy, or at least that’s what she’d claimed. Bucky had the suspicion that she realized T'Challa was in town and knew that the Wakandan Prince was about as fun as an extra hole in the head. Either way, she’d bowed out with an apology that didn’t sound sincere, and Bucky vowed that he’d remember this betrayal!

It had left him alone to deal with his Wakandan counterpart. Honestly, Bucky thought it was a shame. He and T’Challa should have had so much in common. They were both heirs to some of the last remaining sovereignties in the world – let alone the wealthiest – both around the same age, and, dare Bucky admit it, they were both attractive. They should be out enjoying the afternoon on a private yacht stocked with French wine and Italian food and pretty men and women. Or if T’Challa didn’t like boats, they could have cleared out a room at Blue Gin and enjoyed the rooftop views of the city and harbour, also with the aforementioned delicacies.

But no. T’Challa didn’t drink, and he believed in some sort of weird healthy diet and Bucky was pretty sure he didn’t have a flirtatious bone in his entire body. Worse still, when Bucky had thrown in the towel and just asked what T’Challa would like to do, the Prince had replied with art.

Art!

Which was, sadly, how Bucky had found himself asking his driver to take them to La Condamine and what was, or so Bucky was told, the best art gallery in the city.

The ride into town had been quiet. Bucky had tried to point out places of interest as they went, but it quickly became apparent that T’Challa didn’t share the same taste when it came to restaurants and nightclubs, nor did he care for the best places to buy a suit, to gamble or stage a publicity stunt.

After that, Bucky had given up and sat in sullen silence until the car pulled up. Sunglasses on and head down low, Bucky got out of the Cadillac and b-lined for the side entrance to the gallery. His trusty and annoying as hell bodyguard was, of course, ever-present, but at least this time he served a purpose. Rogers’ bulk did a great job of shielding Bucky from any wandering gazes of those on the street. The last thing Bucky wanted to deal with was a gaggle of fans or a slew of paparazzi. There was a time and a place for those things, and babysitting a royal dignitary who didn’t drink certainly wasn’t one of them.

The sooner he got this over and done with, the better.

Bucky liked art as much as the next person, but that didn’t mean that he chose to actively stare at it for hours on end. Yes, it was there to be appreciated, but that meant life as a lovely backdrop in a stunning room filled with other, more meaningful distractions. It was something to be glanced at when entering a space, and the only conversation Bucky was willing to have about old paintings was the sort usually followed by a quick exit from an obviously dull situation.

While Bucky practically raced to slip inside the building, T’Challa took his time, lingering outside and looking the place up and down. God help them all, but Bucky was sure that T’Challa was the type to find architecture enthralling as well.

It wasn’t like Wakanda was a third world country or anything either, which made the Prince’s fascination with all things mundane even worse. Wakanda was one of the most technically advanced countries in the world and the science and technology that they created outshone even that of Tony Stark. It generally came with a more affordable, humanitarian-based price tag as well, and tended to be less on the weapons of mass destruction side of things, too. Apart from the Vibranium, of course, but then Bucky had heard that the Wakandan government stopped at nothing to protect the stores of that precious metal.

Maybe T’Challa was so interested in the dullness of buildings and ancient art because it was all so quaint to him. Bucky hoped that was the reason, as he couldn’t fathom anyone finding genuine interest in piles of cement.

At least T’Challa wasn’t much of a talker; that would have been a nightmare! A chatty boring person was Bucky’s idea of eternal damnation and while Bucky was pretty sure he’d be destined for hell – if all that stuff even existed – he wasn’t ready to punch his one-way ticket yet.

Once inside, T’Challa was content enough to browse the paintings and read every little plaque and then spend another five minutes contemplating what he’d just learned.

There was a Rembrandt exhibition on display in the showcase room which T’Challa took great interest in. Bucky played Among Us on his StarkPhone while lingering in a blank, white-walled corner. Honestly, if he’d wanted to be bored to death, he would have gone and asked Minister Pierce about the economic turmoil in France and the impact that had on the military. That might have been more fun.

With a muffled sigh as the idiots in the lobby voted him as The Imposter, Bucky glanced around the room, seeking out anything that could be more entertaining. He hadn’t been expecting his eyes to land on Rogers, let alone stop there. The guard was hardly interesting, and usually, Bucky would prefer the paintings to Rogers’ stoic presence, but there was something in his eyes that Bucky hadn’t seen before.

For once, the guard wasn’t already staring at him. Bucky could never deny that he loved attention, but the way Rogers watched him was more like a bloodhound or hawk than an admirer. This time, though, Rogers was looking at the room.

No. Not at the room. Rogers, with all his straight-backed, crossed arms and at-easy military stance, was looking at the _art_. Studying it, even, with an intense scrutiny that rivalled T’Challa’s own.

What the hell was going on? Bucky glanced at the art – nope, still shitty and boring. And yet someone could probably come up and stab Bucky in the back and Rogers wouldn’t even notice.

“You like art, huh?” Bucky asked. His voice echoed in the otherwise silent room. That was another freaking thing about art. Why the hell was it always so quiet in galleries? If art was meant to be celebrated, then shouldn’t there be a DJ and a bar and better lighting, or at least some decent music playing through the speakers. But no. It was as solemn as a grave and quiet as a library.

Several eyes turned Bucky’s way at his question, but Rogers seemed to understand that it was directed at him. He appeared to catch himself; Bucky could see it in the breath he sucked in and the slight clench of his jaw that made his beard twitch. Somehow, and borderline impossibly, his back straightened even more as his feet shuffled.

“I do, Your Highness,” Rogers answered. Bucky felt the full weight of Rogers’ attention swing back to him, and for once, it was strangely satisfying. 

“Huh,” Bucky mused with all the scholarly dignity he felt the moment deserved. It was good to know and bound to come in handy. Bucky could dangle some old painting of elderly dudes standing around in a room in front of Rogers and use that as a distraction.

“Is it the stuffy old men, or the oddly proportioned naked women that draws you in?” Bucky asked while pushing himself off the wall. He stalked towards Rogers like he was the prey to Bucky’s inner wolf.

Rogers shifted his feet again, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. Bucky could tell that the man was weighing up whether or not to answer. The Prince was just about to sassily point out that it was rude not to answer the question of a royal when Steve seemed to decide that on his own.

“Neither, Your Highness,” Rogers said slowly. Bucky had noticed that over the week. Rogers was all about those slow, thought out replies. Either he was mildly dense or not used to the idea of verbal communication. Or, Bucky’s socially suspicious mind added, Rogers was hiding something, and thus took great care in selecting each and every word.

“It’s the play of light, and the colours used. The uncompromising realism that…” Bucky watched as Rogers’ head tilted to the side, his eyes narrowing as he once again mulled his words over. “He captures the beauty in ugliness, and the ugliness of all beauty.”

That was probably the most Rogers had ever said all in one go. It was startling to Bucky; he’d begun to suspect that Rogers wasn’t able to formulate sentences, or perhaps didn’t have much else in his head than army drills and protocols.

Snark aside, Bucky found it… _nice_. He guessed. Nice was a good word, even if those words did have him sweeping his eyes back to the decidedly ugly paintings.

“There’s a reason Rembrandt is generally considered the most important master in Dutch art history,” an unfamiliar voice said. Bucky wrinkled up his nose and turned sharp eyes on the stranger that approached. While he’d never admit it, he’d been having fun, and he didn’t much like the way Rogers’ attention waived and strayed from him again.

“If not the greatest visual artists in the history of art,” the man finished as he came to stand with them.

Another American, judging by the accent. How quaint. They seemed to be popping up more and more these days. Bucky blamed Instagram and the so-called ‘Influencer Age’. It had the public flocking to places that they’d otherwise never know about.

“That’s a big statement,” Rogers mused casually. He seemed far too at ease with the chatty man for Bucky’s liking. Maybe it was some sort of art appreciator sense or something. “To say Rembrandt is the greatest is to demote the likes of Michelangelo and Da Vinci.”

“Innovators of their time,” the man interjected. “But not the _best_. Not with the twisted reality of depicted appearance, at least.”

“Do you, ah, work here?” Bucky asked. If his tone was a little testy and irritated, then it had nothing at all to do with all of Rogers’ attention being narrowed in on the stranger.

“No,” the man said with a small laugh. “Just a fan. Scott Lang,” he offered with an outstretched hand and a smile that seemed far too warm for Bucky’s liking.

When it came to public meet and greets and dealing with people in general, Bucky was a natural. He was charming and witty and could fake his way through almost anything. It was an innate talent. Or at least it was when he wasn’t already bored and moody and possibly struggling with woes of not being the centre of attention. For that reason, he looked at the offered hand like it was a snake ready to bite instead of something to be touched.

Strangely enough, Rogers hesitated before he moved in between them, and that threw Bucky off even more. A good bodyguard wouldn’t have let it get to that point. A _good_ bodyguard would have intercepted that forward momentum and shielded their charge from the unknown. Either Rogers was slow when distracted, or he wasn’t as good as Bucky had begrudgingly been giving him credit for.

Or, and there was that voice in Bucky’s head again that circled back to Rogers having something to hide, this man wasn’t unknown to Rogers.

Of course, that was just silly. Bucky was wound up and stressed. He’d never spent so much time in the palace, let alone sitting in on meetings with his father and the royal advisors. It was enough to have anyone craving conspiracies and spotting suspicious activity just for a single moment of excitement.

He really needed to blow off some steam and have some real fun!

“This is His Highness, Prince James of Estia,” Rogers said, making the introduction for him while stepping into the way of that outstretched hand.

Lang retracted it and instead gawked a little before offering some sort of body motion that Bucky guessed was a bow. Honestly, it was closer to a horrible curtsey than anything, but he assumed it was the thought that counted.

“What an honour!” the American gushed. There was an awkward moment of silence between the three of them. Bucky wasn’t about to proclaim that the honour was all his, or anything, and Rogers seemed to be battling his own brain as he remembered what his job and purpose was.

“Well. Umm. Yeah. So, say what you will about Rembrandt,” Scott continued. Bucky’s eyebrows shot up at the persistence of the conversation. The smart move would have been for Lang to take that pause as his cue to leave and let Bucky get back to pestering his bodyguard. But no; people who liked art sure seemed to enjoy talking about it a lot because Lang flowed straight on.

“But there’s a reason his missing painting is one of the most valuable art pieces to ever disappear.”

Bucky perked up. At least that sounded a lot more interesting than talking about paint consistency or brush strokes or whatever the hell Rogers might have started on next.

“Missing?” the Prince prodded, eager for more information.

Lang didn’t disappoint. “ _The Storm of the Sea of Galilee,”_ he said. “It’s a beautiful piece, depicting Jesus taming the turbulent seas while on a sailboat. It’s believed to be Rembrandt’s only seascape.”

That was all well and good, but it wasn’t the juicy details that Bucky wanted. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about the content of the painting; it was the missing part that had wrangled his typically fleeting attention.

Thankfully Lang clearly liked to talk a lot – or was in love with the sound of his own voice – as he went on without prompt. “It was stolen. Back in the ’90s, out of an art museum in Boston. As well as _A Lady and Gentleman in Black_ , and a Rembrandt self-portrait. And a Vermeer which is worth… wow. Five times as much as _Galilee_ , if not more, apparently.”

Bucky didn’t really care about the money; he was more intrigued by the story. “You said missing. It’s never been recovered?” Bucky found that hard to believe. That was decades ago, and yet in a time where modern technology was already around.

“No,” Lang said with what Bucky assumed was a thoughtful smirk. “None of them have turned up, and the FBI and other agencies are still clueless as to how the theft was pulled off.

“Much like Rembrandt is to art, the Boston job is said to be one of the best heists in history,” Lang concluded.

“I’m sure justice will eventually prevail.” Bucky almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of T’Challa’s voice. He’d honestly forgotten that the other Prince was there. “The world gets smaller and less mysterious by the day.”

Bucky frowned, his joy over the idea of some perfectly executed heist turning to ash in his mouth. T’Challa certainly had a way with mood-killing words.

“Well,” Bucky huffed. He glanced at the time on his phone just to make it seem official. “I think we’re done here. We should get you back to your retainers, and I have an afternoon meeting to prepare for.” That was bullshit, but Bucky had always been a good liar. Thankfully Rogers seemed to know when to keep his mouth shut as well, and the guard – for once – did Bucky a solid by not calling him out.

“It was wonderful to meet you,” Lang said in a way that sounded far too familiar. The words came delivered with the same tone Bucky used on people he was actually excited to meet. Like friends of Natasha’s; people he’d heard a lot about and those he generally wanted to make a good impression on.

“Ditto,” Bucky muttered while shuffling off, all without looking up from his phone. He was already flicking through pages of Google results throwing crazy speculation over the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum robbery, and as far as Bucky was concerned, watching some Buzzfeed fools try to solve the crime was a lot better than dealing with T’Challa, Rogers or the mystery motormouth.

* * *

It was almost funny how disappointing some things could be.

If the Fox was honest with themselves, then they’d have to admit that they’d been looking forward to this. It had been far too long since they’d had a real challenge. Criminal gang bang fights didn’t count – there was nothing fun or challenging about the entirety of Estia’s underworld trying to kill the Fox all at once.

What the Fox had been missing was that real contest. That one on one fight that would be remembered through the ages. A test of wills and an endurance run of strength and cunning tactics. That was what the Fox had been craving and what Zemo and his posse had been failing to deliver.

Looking down at the man in the Dogon mask, slumped against the side of a bakery promising to sell the best Greek-style doughnuts in town, the Fox couldn’t help but wallow in that pang of disappointment.

Killmonger was meant to have been a proper opponent. An ex-United States Navy Seal and an Afghan vet. The latter was commendable, but the former, not so much. The Fox had found that those toting about their elite training in America were generally more brawn than brain, and far more trigger happy than patiently calculating. There was this idea that the Seals were the best of the best, but the Fox was a clear testimony to that not being the case. Spray some bullets and hit a target; well done you, and let's cheer it out loud for the US of A. But erratic neuroticism never beat cold calculation and skill honed by a thirst for vengeance.

That was not to say that taking Killmonger down had been _easy_. The soldier turned mercenary turned criminal scum had put up more of a fight than the Fox had had in a long time. There was more brute force behind the Wakandan’s attacks than Batroc’s, and more brawling skill than the slew of thugs Zemo had working the streets. The Fox was sure that they were bleeding behind their mask; a testimony to one too many brain-rattling blows to the head during the scuffle. Their legs and arms sure felt the strain of the fight, and the Fox was certain that they’d be left limping for days.

Still, the stronger and more adept they were, the harder they fell, and that, too, had been the case with Killmonger. The Fox had brought him down like all the rest; just like they would to all who followed in Killmonger’s wake.

Crouching down next to the heaving criminal, the Fox used one vibranium clawed finger to flick the Dogon mask back. It revealed a face, one like any other. The Fox felt indifferent towards it. Neither attractive nor mortifying; neither friendly nor sinister, nor known or unknown. Mouth; nose; eyes. That was all. A mask under a mask and the criminal could have easily been the type to smile and help an elderly neighbour with her groceries just as he could have murdered someone in cold blood.

“You can’t stop us,” the Wakandan criminal – spy, murderer, traitor – had gasped as the mask fell. “We will kill him.”

“I won’t give you the chance,” the Fox said simply. There was no point in elaborate speeches or epic proclamations. Not when business with Killmonger was destined to wrap up within moments. The Fox was, above all things, a person of few words.

For the briefest of moments, an expression of surprise flashed over Killmonger’s face at the sound of the Fox’s voice. Surprised and yet understanding as the pieces fell into place.

In response, the Fox took a grip of that exposed throat, claws sinking into skin and causing red to run.

“You don’t kill.” Killmonger gasped and rasped, his eyes flashing with desperation. The Fox shifted, pressing their knee into the left wrist of the man, pinning that arm down pre-emptively. The right wasn’t a threat, not with the way the Fox had snapped the radius in two while shattering the thug’s thumb.

The Fox looked the man over with curiosity, frowning behind the safety of their black and gold mask. “Whatever gave you that idea?” It was an honest question.

The Fox was many things. A guardian and a watcher in the night, a champion for those wronged and those made to suffer.

But they were no saint, and they sure as hell weren’t anyone’s white knight or a hero for justice. To the Fox, there was a substantial difference between murder and the accidental slip of a claw into an artery, especially when guilt was already determined. Killmonger wore his kills on his skin, marks and reminders of his own callous disregard for life and the pain he had caused.

The Fox wasn’t evil, but everyone had a breaking point and a line of no return. Killmonger had pushed the Fox too far in more ways than one. Threatening to kill the king was just the final straw.

“Sometimes I do,” the Fox cooed. The vibranium claws tightened; blood-red thicker; faster; brighter. It was poetic, the Fox mused, that the masked villain be killed by the very thing he’d smuggled out of his own country and sold to the highest bidder. No doubt Killmonger had never thought that his own recklessness would come back to haunt him, let alone seal his fate.

As blood bubbled from the puncture wounds, and Killmonger gurgled for breath, the Fox systematically wiped down the scene, pausing only long enough to nudge the man’s arm with a boot once finished. Nonresponsive; glassy eyes.

The Fox’s job was done.

Killmonger wouldn’t get the chance to escape Wakandan custody again. He’d be going home in a body bag, and if Wakanda knew what was good for them, they’d thank Estia for services rendered.

* * *

* * *

**Chapter Five Preview:**

As another tequila shot slid across the bar for him, Bucky took a moment to look around the room. It was then that he caught the watchful gaze of his bloodhound of a bodyguard. Bucky hadn’t forgotten about him – of course, he couldn’t – but he also hadn’t expected Rogers to be standing at military ease at the end of the bar, nor had he expected the man’s eyes to be locked so securely onto him.

So much for watching the room for threats.

Bucky raised an eyebrow as he salted up his hand again. The way Rogers’ jaw clenched proved that he was well aware of Bucky's attention. Good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can stalk me on [Tumblr](https://minka-g.tumblr.com/) and now [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Minka_writes), and, if you have time, drop a comment so I have something to get me through this next week of bullshit.

**Author's Note:**

> Updates, as per usual, will be Wednesdays my time. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos help make all the word suffering worthwhile (especially with this fic; omg) so please help justify my insanity to myself by leaving your thoughts. I am still working on the end of this fic, so all comments will be used as magical kindling to see me powering through the final parts. XD
> 
> In the meantime, feel free to stalk me on [Tumblr](https://minka-g.tumblr.com/) or over on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Minka_writes).


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